Dark on Fire
by mutemockingjay
Summary: The four were trapped. One in her own failure, the other in her vulnerability. He wanted to outrun everything. And the last of the four? Trying so desperately to break into memory that was never meant to be unlocked. AU/Deviant Universe
1. Reaping

**A/N: My mind is a far from orderly place, so I will try to keep this as concise as possible. This is a crossover (and yes, I know it isn't in the crossovers category. I have been here so long there was a time it never existed, and I prefer to stay set in my ways. Report me if you wish to do so) with Red vs Blue. Now, all you non-RvBers, please don't take this as a cue to run in the other direction. All you need to know is that these characters I am using from RvB are all named for states. Also, any potential mon-RvBer who may see this, I am posting this to a separate site for Red vs Blue fanfic. Many don't know the Hunger Games there, so I am explaining as I go along, in a way that is an interesting as possible. Please bear with me whilst I do so. As a final note, I am aware this chapter is short but the others are not, at least 1k per chapter. Update days are every other Friday (and may increase in frequency) and last but not least I would like to thank my boyfriend, Rane, for being the first person to see the first draft of this, give me some crit, and help me fix it. As well as the lovely ZetaEtaTheta, my HG canon beta, and favorite bitch Queen. **

* * *

_My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est  
Pro patria mori._

_-Wilfred Owen_

_

* * *

_

It was her first reaping day, and she could barely stand upright. In her starched purple dress, washed and fitted for the occasion, she stood in the back of the crowd with the other twelve year olds, their whispers only heightening her nerves. She knew exactly what was going to happen—what child in the nation of Panem had not heard of the Hunger Games?

But that didn't make it any easier.

Nor did the knowledge of her parent's sacrifice for her safety; only putting her name in for one ration of oil and tesserae despite the fact that they would go to bed hungry as a result. There were other children in District 11 who had a better chance, but even that small comfort was fleeting as the Mayor reached for the glass bowls stuffed with paper. The name of the girl tribute was beneath his fingertips at that very moment and she could hardly breathe; the bodice of her dress suddenly far too tight and the ground staggering and off kilter.

Only a few seconds more, she reminded herself.

A few seconds more and her first reaping would be done and over with, a different name read and another girl taken from her home to fight to the death under the watchful, brutal gaze of the Capitol. Someone else's pain to be splashed on national television, so very far from her home, her world in the wheat fields of District 11. Starving, yes, but at least together; at least not fighting the unknown.

Or so she thought.

Until her name, Carolina, was read larger than life and she saw herself stagger towards the stage, frail and feeble and numb on the inside. Twelve years old, and her life was over before it had even truly begun.

* * *

The son of a coal miner from the Seam would never be good enough. True, Haymitch Abernathy, winner of the 50th Hunger Games, was already the laughingstock of District 12 with his drunken antics but York knew he would barely be considered above Abernathy's level—or so went the vicious gossip that spread across the entire District. It was the secret, hidden tradition of betting over possible candidates for the year's reaping that brought York these pearls of wisdom.

York, the fifteen year old loner who liked to play with locks and keys in his spare time—what a waste! Sure, the girl tribute, South Dakota, had strength, had potential, even without her twin brother. But the lanky, slacker, prideful, good for nothing York? An amateur thief with a hopeless future?

Never.

He had his name submitted too many times to count; his younger sisters, too small for reaping day, were counting on the ration of oil and essential tesserae grain given for each submission of his name in the pot. They had so little as it was that York couldn't bear to say no. All he could do was close his eyes and hope he wasn't picked.

Unfortunately, today luck was far from his side.

With the snatches of overhead gossip running laps in York's mind he bounded up to the stage, turning to his new partner and flashing her a confident, irresistible grin. All for the audience, all for the cameras filming. He took her pale hand in his and shook it, determined to focus on anything but the fate ahead of him. Whether it be life or death (and it was nearly certain to be the latter), York reminded himself to never show his fear.

Never let them see you sweat.

Take care of the girl, outrun the others, and keep pushing, no matter how hard it gets.

Even if it's all a boldfaced lie.


	2. Like a Rose

**A/N: For the handful of you who aren't familiar with RvB, I decided to open each chapter with a quote from it, just to help a little. Thank you so much to all my lovely reviewers, and to Martienne for beta-ing this chapter. **

* * *

"_Tex is…confusing. She is... she's... I don't know what she is."_

-Washington , Reconstruction: Chapter Seventeen

* * *

Each tribute was given an hour to say goodbye to their family, but as far as Tex was concerned it was an hour too much. Her mother hadn't shown up to say goodbye, and at this point she didn't expect them to. She had left Tex in a community home five years ago for not being picked in her first reaping.

A failure, too shameful to be seen with again.

Though that's how it was in District 2. With children training for the Games their entire lives, anything less than perfection was considered unacceptable. Oftentimes whoever was picked in the reaping wouldn't even get the chance to compete; a hopeful would volunteer in their place. And at age seventeen, Tex took her rightful place amongst the volunteers, next to a tall, well-fed brown-haired boy her own age—she couldn't remember his name as well as she should have. Washingtub? Washington? One of the two; it didn't matter. She trained on her own, and no one was going to get in her way.

Not this time; not any time.

There had been too many days of being within sight of her goal and just missing it by a few seconds, a mere twist of fate. Too many days of aching muscles and red-spotted eyes as she gritted her teeth and forced herself not to cry. Too many nights spent alone, curled up and trying to tune out the noise of the few other angry, rowdy children in the Community Home.

The ones in the outlying districts were more crowded; very few people in District 2 died of starvation, or abandoned their children. She just happened to be the exception to the rule, like she was with everything else. But, for once, she was determined to turn that in her favor, to stand up in triumph and shove it in her mother's face on live television.

Nothing would be sweeter than that moment, and the Victory Tour that would follow. A moment all to herself, something she had held closest to her heart for as long as she could remember. Not forced to share with anyone, and she never would.

Except maybe—

Well, there was Church.

Tex sighed, absentmindedly tying up her bright red hair. He loved it when she wore it loose around her shoulders; all the more reason to put it up in a messy ponytail.

Leonard L. Church.

The constant thorn in her side and yet…

Yet there was something about him that she could never quite ignore, nor stop loving. Maybe it was the way his blue eyes shone when she talked to him. Or how when he was pissed or embarrassed his ears would turn bright red and he would flush like a girl. Or how whenever Tex pointed that he would get even angrier and start yelling in that slightly rough voice of his, twanged with an accent she could never quite place.

"Tex."

Her breath caught in her throat—he was there, of course. Waiting like he always did. On most days it infuriated her, and even now she had to bite back the bitterness. Life was easier without goodbyes, didn't he know that?

He would make her lose her focus on the arena now, if he insisted on being sweeter to her than she knew she deserved.

"What do you want?" she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What do you think? I'm not sitting here hanging around for the fun of it." Church licked his lips and stepped towards her, uneasily perched on the edge of a seat next to her. He lowered his tone, and reached for her hand. "I had to say goodbye."

She wrenched away from him, and shook her head, now untying her hair so that it sat upon her shoulders in that messy, fiery way he adored.

Let it sink in, she thought. Remember me this way, and then leave before it gets worse.

"Don't do it, Church. Just go back home to your _mother _and pretend we never met." She spat the word 'mother' at him like it was the deadliest poison.

"Let's leave mothers outta this!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I offend you? It's not like you're going to be fighting for your life four days from now. Get over it." She leaned in directly across from him, her lips so close to his that she could feel the warmth of his breath. "And get over me. I don't want your goodbyes."

She had never seen him collapse so completely as he did in that moment, though he tried his best not to show it. In fact, those who didn't know him well wouldn't even know. They wouldn't notice the dead look in his eyes, the furrowing of his brows, the collapse of his mouth into a fierce scowl, the corners of his lips trembling in an effort not to cry.

"Fine," he said. "Fucking fine. You want to be that way, Tex…"

He pressed his lips to hers in an explosion of red hot anger, and before she could think she had melted into his kiss—into the fury, the lust, the fear of it all. She gave an involuntary sigh, and he pulled away in triumph. "That's your goodbye, Tex. Whether you like it or not. Think of me in the Arena." He turned around and, resting his hand on the doorknob, he thought better of it, and spun back to face her. Sure enough, the tips of his ears were red, and Tex's heart gave a small squeeze at the sight. "Actually, scratch that," he said. "Don't think of me there. Because the girl you're becoming isn't the Tex I love."

The slam of the door echoed in her ears all the way to the train station.

* * *

Maine hated goodbyes.

He never knew what to say, or even how to say it. Tongue tied, he stared down at the richly carpeted floor and shuffled one scuffed, dirty boot against it, satisfied at the dusty streak it left behind. He focused on everything but his Dad in front of him, those once bright green eyes dimmed, dull and tired from hunger and endless work.

Maine shared the same eyes; the pair looked so much alike that if it weren't for the backbreaking work in the orchards of District 11 taking its toll, they could have been mistaken for brothers instead of father and son. But since the death of his mother two years ago, there had been little to bring back the life in his Dad.

" 'M sorry," Maine muttered, running his hands through the fabric covering the chair he sat in.

Velvet; soft, plush, and finer than anything he was ever used to. He had no idea what he was even apologizing for, and he wanted to slap himself the moment he started speaking. But there had to be something said; anything at all, as the minutes ticked by and the silence filled his entire existence. The other families were making the most of every second—he saw his fellow tribute clinging to her mother—and here he was, too cowardly and confused to say what was going through his mind.

"It's okay, son." His father placed his hand on Maine's shoulder in what he must have thought would be a comforting manner. But to Maine it was another burden, another heavy weight. A horrible thought passed through his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out.

_If I had been chosen at the reaping two years ago, it would be better now. _

Better off dead.

Twelve year old tributes rarely stood a chance in the Games; they were too scrawny, too inexperienced. Especially if they came from one of the poorer districts like his own, where it was common for children to be undernourished and faint from hunger, even during the harvest season. He figured if he was going to die he would rather it be by anything but starvation. Anything but that slow, painful withering away of the body and mind that took his mother.

"I…I…" Maine's tongue felt thick in his mouth, and he licked his dry, chapped lips.

"It's okay," his father repeated, as if those two words were some sort of lifeline, a guarantee that Maine would get through this. It seemed all too quickly that the Peacekeepers arrived to separate the families; Maine could hear wrenched sobs as the girl tribute was pulled from her mother's arms without mercy. Then it was his turn, and still he could not find the words.

He went with the Peacekeepers quietly, and just as the doors were closing behind the small clan of himself, the girl, their mentor for the Games and the Peacekeepers, it came to him in a rush of emotion.

"Dad! Wait!" he called, putting his hands in the door to keep it from closing.

The Peacekeepers, never kind in the best of circumstances, were giving him bone -chilling glares, but Maine didn't care.

"Dad!" His father's back was to Maine as he walked away, and Maine bit his lower lip, those few seconds agonizing.

_Turn around, please turn around…_

He did, and for that single moment, all was right in his Maine's world. His father's chin length, ashy blonde hair hung in his face, and he smiled like he hadn't in years.

"I love you, Dad," Maine managed to choke out, faking a small cough to keep himself from crying.

"Love you, too, kid. Give 'em hell for me, okay?"

If he hadn't been trying so hard to keep himself from crying he would have laughed. "I promise."


	3. Secret

**A/N: Thanks to Martienne for beta-ing. Each chapter is named for a song (in my very extensive playlist for this fic). The previous chapter was "Like a Rose" by Meatloaf. This chapter is "Secret" by The Pierces. **

**Also, I apologize for stepping out of HG canon a little bit in this chapter. I have a tendency to write ahead, and at the time that I wrote this, I had not started Catching Fire. I have finished all of them now, though. :P  
**

* * *

"_South rarely worked in a direct fashion."_

-Delta, Reconstruction: Chapter Eight

* * *

Carolina had never seen something so beautiful in her entire life. The shock of it dried up the constant flow of tears that had been streaming since she had said goodbye to her mother, and she bit the tip of her tongue to keep herself from crying again.

You're a tribute now, she reminded herself. Tributes are strong, tributes never cry.

So instead she focused on the room before her, a room all to herself. Back home she lived in a one-room cottage with her mother, father, and her two brothers—a solemn four-year-old and a rambunctious toddler in the throes of the terrible twos—so even though the bunk on the train was slightly narrow, it was hers, all hers. She collapsed into the richly embroidered down comforter; she couldn't help it. The walls were paneled in deep walnut wood, and the carpet that had been beneath her feet mere seconds ago was so thick she felt as though she could drown in it.

She buried her nose in the nest of the blankets and pillows; they smelled so perfect—crisp, clean, perfumed with something beyond the ordinary soap that her mother used to launder clothes with in District 11. This scent was sweeter, stronger, and it reminded Carolina a little bit of the fruit she harvested when the season came. So plump and juicy, but rarely to call her own.

"Mmmm." she murmured; she could stay curled up here forever.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Huh?" She shot straight upwards, causing her to bump her head on the bunk above her. She winced and rubbed a small lump that had instantly blossomed on her forehead.

The boy that addressed her was tall, lanky, with very little muscle on him—unusual for those who worked in the wheat fields as he must have. Unless he was an orchard boy, of course, but Carolina couldn't recall seeing him there before, and climbing from tree to tree required a certain amount of strength. He was unusual in another way as well—most from District 11 (like herself) had dark skin, eyes, and hair, but not this boy. He was slightly tanned, yes, but his hair was a shade of golden-brown blonde that fell to his chin, and his eyes were a piercing, magnetic shade of green that practically seemed to glow.

"Forgotten me already, Carolina?" He gave her a small, ironic smile, and that's when it hit her.

_My fellow tribute. How could I be so stupid?_

She untangled her limbs from the bedding and only managed to slide to the floor in an undignified heap. He laughed, and she instantly fell in love with the sound; so carefree and bold, like he wasn't afraid of anything. And maybe he wasn't, considering the way he held himself, cocky and self-assured, though there was still a sense of comfort about him, and Carolina felt as though she could go to him for anything.

"You're…Maine, right?"

She mentally kicked herself for being uncertain of his name, but he didn't seem to take the slightest offense.

"Yep," he said, nodding. "The one and only." He walked over to her where she still sat in a rather pathetic positioning, her limbs refusing to cooperate. He extended his hand to pull her to her feet. "Nice to meetcha, even though I already have."

She took it, blushing slightly. "I'm sorry I didn't remember," she murmured.

"No problem. You looked pretty upset sayin' goodbye to your folks so's I didn't expect you to remember a damn thing."

Her eyes widened a bit at the curse, and he laughed again at her astonishment. "I know you aren't so proper as to have never heard it before," he said, and she nodded in agreement.

"Touché," she replied, and he put his arm around her shoulder.

"You hungry?"

"Yes!" She didn't mean to raise her voice a little, but in the pain of saying goodbye to her mother she had forgotten completely about eating. As soon as Maine mentioned the prospect of food, however, the need to eat came back so strongly that she swayed a little in its astounding power.

"That's what I thought."

He gave her shoulders a little squeeze, and steered her out the door of her quarters down the hallway to the dining room of the train. As he chattered away amicably, it was all too easy to lose herself in the sense of safety and protection he provided. True, he was only two years older than her, but sometimes he didn't show it; like beneath his exuberance there was some sort of hidden scars she would never be privy to.

She stopped short at the thought, and a renewed sense of fear flooded through her. Looking up into his eyes, eyes that threatened to carry her to other, happier places, it truly hit her.

_Only one of us will be going home. And if it came down to it, would I save myself over him?_

_

* * *

_

York liked his mentor right away.

Well, technically he had two mentors, but York felt drawn to Peeta Mellark as soon as the older boy had introduced himself to York and South with a gentle smile. York had seen him more times than he could count, of course—he and Katniss Everdeen had won the legendary 74th Hunger Games three years ago as the "star-crossed lovers of District 12". All of Panem had been glued to the Games that year, or at least, that was how York felt about it. He had seen Peeta's sincerity in his declaration of love right away. Katniss, he had been uncertain about. She was strong, sure, and had a talent with a bow and arrow that York's deft fingers could only dream of replicating.

But there was something about her that he didn't quite trust, nor could he put his finger on why. York didn't claim to be a romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but seeing how far Peeta had gone for Katniss in the Games slowly began to change his mind, even if he wouldn't admit it to anyone but himself, though he could barely do that at the best of times.

York stared down at the plate of food in front of him, still barely able to comprehend it all. In some stupid, irrational place in his mind he thought if he blinked it would all disappear, that this was all some sort of surreal, nightmare-dream that had started with the reaping. Everything about the train ride to the Capitol was dream-like, nearly too good to be true. At least it would be if he wasn't constantly reminded of why he was here, why he was being buttered up.

Still, he couldn't help himself as he tore into another roll; soft and still warm, it was so different from the bread he knew in District 12, bread that he had never gotten enough of to begin with. It took all his self control not to descend upon the heaps of food like a desperate savage, and when he looked up he saw Peeta's blue eyes fixed on him.

Quickly, York sat up straighter, taking his elbows off the table. He hoped the wolfish expression was gone, but judging by the amused expression on Peeta's face, he had not done a very good job.

"It's okay," his mentor reassured him. "Trust me, I know the feeling."

"Yeah," York muttered, wishing he was better at small talk.

"Here." Peeta passed a dish of lamb stew in York's direction. "Eat as much as you can—without getting sick, of course. You'll need it in the Arena."

Of course, at the mention of the Arena, York lost all desire to eat ever again. He must have been looking a bit green around the gills, as his fellow tribute, South, looked up from her dish with an unsettling, sweet smile on her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, brushing back a stray piece of his hair. It was an intimate gesture—too intimate—and York was paralyzed by it, by the food, by the overwhelming anxiety that grew in sheer volume the closer they got to the Capitol.

He couldn't speak, and he wasn't quite sure how to even describe the sound that came out of his mouth. Peeta stood up from his place, looking at York with concern.

"Maybe—"

But South was one step ahead, and took York by the shoulders. "I'll take him back to his room," she said smoothly, and Peeta raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything more.

Her hands gripped York tightly, but he allowed himself to be steered away from the table. Just as he rounded the corner, however, he managed to catch Peeta's bright blue eyes. And, for a moment, it was like the two were connected in thought, both trying to make sense of the scene in front of them. At first glance, it was perfectly innocent, but there was something about South Dakota that left York deeply shaken, though he could not place why.


	4. Recovering Two

**A/N: I decided to use the other RvB, non-Freelancer characters in supporting roles, like the stylists, and maybe a few will pop up here and there as mentors. Also, the beginning of South and Peeta's exchange is a throwback to Recovery One, episode two, in which South makes her very first appearance. **

**It's past 1am, so I can't remember the actual song that inspired this chapter. xD**

**My lovely beta, Martienne, went back and helped me fix the grammatical errors in this chapter.  
**

* * *

"_Hi everybody, I'm super horny from all the robot killing. Hey is it hot in here? Who wants to help me out of this heavy armor? This breastplate is so itchy. Bow chicka bow-"_

"_You're a pig."_

"_I didn't even get to the part where the sailors show up."_

-Tucker, Tex, and Tucker again, Blood Gulch Chronicles: Episode 58

* * *

"Hey, can I kill him?"

Tex stared at her stylist, a coal-skinned man who had the most ridiculous hair she had ever seen (dyed a vibrant shade of aqua), and a habit of staring at her chest like he was a stray dog begging for a treat. Sure, she had to grudgingly admit he did his job well—her hair hadn't been this shiny in years, soft and curling ever so slightly at the edges as it fell down to her shoulders. But if he uttered the words "bow chicka bow wow" one more time, she figured it would be perfectly justifiable to punch him in the face.

At the very least.

Being scrubbed down from head to toe had given her little time for reflection, but now that she was out of pain, her skin pink and raw, she was given what she wanted the least—time to think. As her stylist, Tucker, muttered to himself and picked amongst outfits that would show off her "assets" as he called them, Tex wrapped the flimsy silk robe around herself and hummed a mindless tune.

Anything to block out Church's last words to her, last words that refused to be tossed to one side like most others directed at her were. How many years had she put up with the insults and screaming from her mother, the so-called "motivation"? She had learned from any early age not to cry from the harsh words, or the even harsher smacks across the face when she had failed, yet again.

_Because the girl you're becoming isn't the Tex I love._

She put one hand up to her cheek and stepped towards the mirror, blinking back at the young woman who stared at her, unrelenting. Sure, her skin was smooth and clean—she wasn't a complete filthy savage like the two tributes from District 12, though she hadn't taken much stock into making herself beautiful—but her eyes were harder now, a tough, unrelenting amber instead of their usual caramel color. She had no idea when this change had occurred, but one look and she knew Church had been right, and her stomach heaved at the thought.

_It wasn't supposed to go this way!_

She was always the right one, always the one who had the sense of direction, the leadership of the two. Church may have thrown insults back at her when provoked enough, but he had never been the one to take the initiative in anything.

"Here you are, baby." Tucker handed her what appeared to be a length of grey fabric made of something thin that curved and twisted in her hands. He didn't take notice of the unhappiness in Tex's features, and she didn't really expect him to. What could you really expect from someone who spent an hour and a half talking about his sexual escapades in far more detail than Tex ever wanted to hear?

She unfolded the fabric, and stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending. "You…want me to wear a dress."

"It's not gonna kill you. Unless, of course, if looks can kill. Bow chicka—"

"Get out."

* * *

"Well…this is…um…" South was very rarely at a loss for words, but the coal miner's get-up in front of her left her utterly speechless. And not in the good way.

She would have thought after the splash Katniss had made at the 74th Games as "the girl on fire" would have caused an improvement in the costume South had to wear. However, with a new stylist, Grif (who took the word 'lazy' to a new level), it seemed all the good that had been done in Katniss' and Peeta's year stylistically had been washed down the drain.

"At least you're not naked and covered in coal dust." Katniss stared at it, shaking her head and murmuring something under her breath about how it was shame Cinna was no longer assigned to District 12.

"You know, naked would almost be preferable." South didn't notice York sneak up behind her; at the sound of his voice it took all her willpower not to be jump in surprise.

Instead, she tried for a cynical, affected tone. "Yeah, I'm sure you'd love to be paraded in front of the Capitol in absolutely nothing at all."

York shrugged his shoulders. "And I care what they think because…?"

"Because you want sponsors, don't you?" South placed her hands on her hips and brushed away a stray blonde curl. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not starve to death in the arena if I can help it."

Sponsors.

The magic word for every tribute. The more sponsors a tribute managed to rack up, the more money could be donated, and therefore, more supplies could be sent into the arena via tiny, silver parachutes—their only contact with the outside world. It was a joint effort, between the tributes themselves, their stylists, and their mentors, who bore the brunt of responsibility in getting supplies to their young charges.

But for South, it was more than that. More than survival, more than the last one standing, half dead, like all the other victors over the years.

No, this was personal.

Really, none of this would have happened if it hadn't been for her twin. North. Silly, "noble" North, who had considered it his responsibility to look after her— he was two minutes older and apparently that had made him all knowing, and left her helpless.

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

Yeah, helpless.

It was North had been helpless a year ago, when he had been picked for the Games. He had " boldly sacrificed himself for a younger tribute in her death throes".

Or, as South put it, "been a complete idiot, and gotten himself killed for absolutely no reason whatsoever." The noble explanation had stuck, however, and afterward South found herself being held up against a shadow. After a while, she had stopped caring what strangers thought. Learned to toss back her curls, and slap on an arrogant expression to deflect their pitying glances.

But her mother?

Her mother had never forgotten, and probably never would. South had always suspected that her mother had favored North, and after his body had been delivered to their home, her suspicion had been realized. Her mother changed that day, and not in a way South expected. She would have thought her mother would collapse from grief, weeping, and be unable to move forward. But move forward she did. However, all of her anger had to go somewhere, and South became the target of it.

She didn't look like her twin, and sometimes she wondered if that made it easier for her mother to leave the bruises. It always started the same way: South had done something "wrong". Broken a glass. Gotten an 'unacceptable' grade in school. Talked back when she shouldn't have. The list of failures went on and on, and the more South pulled away from her, the harder the blows rained down. Reminders. Each bruise told a story, spoke another one of her failures, another way of telling her how unlike her twin she had been.

On the days it became too much to handle, she would spend time in the Meadow, wandering aimlessly, or when she was feeling bolder, wiggle under the fence and go into the woods. She never did much, just sat down on the occasional tree stump and looked up at the sky. But very quickly, those quiet moments meant the world to her. Where she could be no one at all, another blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl with no name, and no place.

She always had to come back, of course. But she held onto those precious minutes at night, during the dreary hours of school, and now, in the alien world of the Capitol, and the Games to follow.

"South?" Someone was calling her, though she couldn't place exactly who. "South, are you with me? South?"

"What?" She blinked, trying to focus on the present, even if said present involved hideous get-ups made by new stylists who didn't know what they were doing, or just didn't care. "Right. Uh, sorry."

It was Peeta who was addressing her now, and she quickly straightened up, trying to convey the appearance of full attention, even if her mind was still back in District 12. "Don't sweat it," he said, and gestured towards the clothes in front of her. "I know it's not…"

"It's not the best." She put on her most tactful voice, and she could see the amusement in his eyes.

Katniss, however, looked far from amused by her acting, regarding South with a wary, mistrustful eye, like she was expecting South to reveal some sort of backhanded strategy.

And, of course, South would do no such thing.

At least, that's what she hoped everyone would think, as she disappeared into the room she had been assigned.

Such was the giddiness of her freedom that she didn't stop twice to consider that while Katniss may not be the most gullible of sorts, York's soft, easygoing exterior hid more secrets than she would ever know.


	5. Lady Jesus

**A/N: Lucky day for y'all; I'm about six chapters ahead (and counting...trying to write as much as I can before I go back to school) so I'm uploading this one today. This chapter is all Maine's POV because it's important to the story-and now y'all get to meet my OC, Massa. Short for Massachusetts, of course. ;)**

**Thanks to my boyfriend, Rane, for looking over this chapter. ^^**

**Song for this chapter is Lady Jesus by Asteroids Galaxy Tour.  
**

* * *

"_A great love is a lot like a good memory. When it's there, and you know it's there but it's just out of your reach, it can be all you think about."_

-Epsilon, Revelation: Chapter 20

* * *

He had seen her before. Where, he had no idea, and technically it was impossible. Travel between the Districts was forbidden, and as a result Maine had never been beyond the fields of District 11 before. So how could he have possibly seen the girl tribute from 4, and recognize her?

She was beautiful, sure. Whoever her stylist was they had done any excellent job—simple, but excellent. Her long, wavy, chestnut hair fell down to the small of her back and there was a touch of gold glimmer around her dark brown eyes, enough to bring out small flecks of green in them. Her dress fell off one shoulder, made of a soft fabric that resembled sea foam. Each pair of tributes had been assembled deep underground before the nighttime parade throughout the Capitol. Most stuck to themselves, not acknowledging their partners, let alone tributes from other Districts.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Carolina's stylist fiddling with last minute touches, muttering something about Chantilly lace. Her dress was beautiful as well, made of a fine spun lace that through some miracle managed to resemble golden sheaves of wheat, a few flowers fetchingly tucked into her hair. Innocent as can be, and her stylist, Donut, loved her that way, cooing over her 'delicate features'. Gushing or not, Maine rather liked him, even if he constantly insisted his hair was 'light-ish red' as opposed to its very obvious shade of bubblegum pink.

The girl from District 4, however, had managed to break free of her stylist and headed towards him, leaving Maine in a panic.

_Oh God, what does she want? Do I look like an idiot? Is this some sort of weird strategy? Make nice with the poor Districts and then take them out while no one is looking? _

The closer she got to his chariot the more he began to fidget, and he was sure that he looked like he had gotten some sort of odd twitching disease. But the more he tried to make it stop the worse it became, so eventually he just sighed, ran his hands through his hair and prayed he wouldn't do something completely stupid.

Her quiet footsteps echoed in his ears over and over again, blood rushing to his mind, making everything fuzzy and out of focus. It seemed like blood was rushing everywhere, however—he was burning up, or so he thought. At least, that was the only part of him reacting that he felt like acknowledging.

"Hey," she softly, her hand reaching out.

Beads of sweat broke out on Maine's forehead; suddenly his long sleeved tunic was far too restricting.

_Is she really reaching for me? What do I do?_

_Pull yourself together, Maine. You can do this. Girls are nothing new to you, remember? You're not a complete idiot. Well, maybe you are, but don't tell her that. Or show her that. Or whatever. _

He felt as though his knees were due to give out any moment, and without thinking, he leaned up against the solid mass behind him. When said solid mass shifted and made an impatient whinnying noise, Maine realized he made a big mistake. The horse that would later pull his and Carolina's chariot was none too happy with Maine's body weight unexpectedly and shifted to the side, leaving Maine in a similar position as Carolina had been on the tribute train.

Of course, his pride had taken more of a bruising than he imagined hers ever would. He heard the District 4 girl giggle and he quickly scurried to his feet.

"I…um…yeah…sorry about that…" He trailed off, only to realize that she had moved on, talking to the horse in soft, sweet tones.

_Oh, that's nice. I could have been hurt, and she's too busy to notice. Stupid horse. Stupid girl. _

_Wait. Why do you care again, what she thinks?_

_That's right; you don't._

But despite what his mind was telling him he couldn't resist walking over to the spooked animal, praying the cursed thing wouldn't cause him anymore bodily harm.

"You know, it's always nice to know that someone really cares. Like, say, when I get hurt." He fought so hard to keep the venom out of his voice, but he knew he was failing. The wounded expression on her face made the twitching start again, this time accompanied to the tune of a pulsing stab with each beat of his heart.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I wasn't…" Those brown eyes flickered towards his briefly, before focusing again on the horse's cream colored mane. "I guess…I guess I wasn't thinking straight." She smiled at him; the heartbreaking kind that girls could give without even realized they had done so.

Maine wasn't the type to hold a grudge; forgiveness was second nature to him. "It's okay." He cleared his throat a little, forcing himself to look straight at her, instead of his shoes. "Care to start over? I'm Maine."

"Massa," she replied, giving the horse a small pat.

_Massa. _

The realization hit him swiftly. Of course! He remembered where he had seen her before—at the District 4 reaping last year, on television. She had the misfortune of being picked, but another had rushed to volunteer in her place. He had been struck by her, the unearthly sort of beauty that had radiated from her even then, at age thirteen.

He was certain he couldn't tell her that, though, and he wracked his brains for something to say. Something intelligent, or witty; something that would have girls back home blushing, the way they always did when he flirted with them.

Of course, nothing came to mind, and he stood there, feeling his cheeks heat up, and torn between wanting to stay next to her and wishing he had never ended up in the Games to begin with.

"Mass!"

A brawny, auburn headed boy walked towards her, and Maine scowled.

_Why does everyone in District 4 have to be so damn sexy?_

Granted, this boy was no Finnick Odair, a former winner who had been a heartthrob ever since. But he was good looking enough to leave Maine slightly unsettled.

"Mass, hurry up! We have to get ready." The boy narrowed his eyes. "Now."

"My name's not Mass," Massa muttered under her breath, but tossed back her hair and followed the boy anyway. "Bye, Maine." She shot him a small, shy smile, and very lightly touched his hand.

Maine watched her leave, transfixed by the way her hair caught the light, and the slight way her hips moved back and forth. It was unusual for someone from a richer District, possibly a Career, hint at an alliance with someone from a poorer District. It left Maine scratching his head, numb as he climbed into the chariot with Carolina, holding the nervous girl's hand as they circled through the city.

Just what exactly was Massa playing at? And why did he care so much?


	6. Trocadero Circus

**A/N: Thanks to Martienne for the beta-ing job. Three quick RvB canon notes here (in order of when they appear in this chapter):**

**-Tucker has a silver energy sword (alien technology) that Tex can't use; whenever she tries it just refuses to work**

**-In the series, 9 times out of 10 Maine is called "Meta" or "the Meta". **

**-Maine has a few abilities added to his armor (everyone on the show wears Halo spartan armor) and one of them is called "cloaking" in which he moves so that he looks like he is invisible, but he can never disappear completely. Oftentimes you'll catch a shimmer or even a blur of his armor when he runs past. This is what I was referencing at the end of this chapter. **

**Song for this chapter is a mix my friend made with Britney Spears' Circus, and Maine's theme song on RvB (When Your Middle Name is Danger).  
**

* * *

"_So now, no matter how tough she is, no matter how hard she fights, she is always going to fail because that's what she's based on. No matter what she's doing, or what she's trying to accomplish, just when her goal is within her reach, it gets yanked away. Every. Single. Time. Can you imagine what that's like?"_

_-Epsilon, Revelation: Chapter Nineteen_

_

* * *

_

They were perfect.

Tex looked at the array of knives in front of her, tracing each one ever so delicately with the tip of one manicured finger. She was used to working with such weapons before, for hours upon hours back home. But they never failed to leave her hushed and reverent, as if she was placing her hands on something holy.

And, in a way, she was.

It was the only thing she could live for, the only thing that didn't judge or watch her. No, a knife was unique to its owner, understood their personalities, their strengths and their weaknesses. Understood far better than any human ever could, for knives had no desires upon themselves, no manipulations or underlying motivations. They simply existed to be molded to the purpose of their owner. Easily tamed, the ultimate control.

Unlike herself, or so she had been told. Harshly by her mother. In an attempted form of endearment by Church.

"You wild thing," he had half-murmured into her neck as he kissed her. He had known all of her sweet spots, all the parts of her that would leave her far too vulnerable in his capable hands. "Beautiful, wild thing."

"No," she had said, pushing him away. She never said why she had walked away from him that day, or why she had not spoken to him days on afterward. Maybe other girls liked being called beautiful, or wild. Maybe other girls liked to be tamed, but she was not one of them. And she never wanted to be reminded of it.

The tributes were slated to spend three days in the Training Center before the Games began—prepping, picking up new skills if they could, careful to guard their own, precious abilities, showing no one their true strength—even the Gamemakers were not an exception to this rule. Most would show off when called to the Gamemakers tonight, in a private meeting to evaluate whatever skills they possessed. Each tribute was given a score between 1 and 12, with 1 being the worst any tribute could ever dream of receiving. It was not a sure thing, of course, only a measure used to consider a tribute's potential in the arena, a tool for Capitol citizens for gambling.

Some tributes purposefully hid their talents from the Gamemakers, looking for a low score, and later dazzle the crowd with what they could do in the arena. Let the other players think they were weak, only to show them up by the end.

But that was not Tex's style, and it never would be. She had dozens of weapons at her disposal, to show the Gamemakers exactly what she was made of. Her focus turned to one particular sword at the table before her, a glimmering silver one, unlike any she had ever seen before. She had not even seen it before in the Training Center, in her previous practice. She picked it up, testing its weight in her right hand, then her left. Fair balance—better than fair actually. It felt lighter than oxygen, her fingers grasping the hilt, molding perfectly to the fit of her hand. A slow smile spread across her face, and she just knew. Knew that this sword was made for her, would respond to her call, even the most subtle of muscle movements. A small voice in the back of her mind told her to be careful, that she should not use a weapon she had never practiced with before. But it was too perfect to let sit there, hidden amongst the other knives and swords. Or so she told herself.

She set it down for the briefest of moments, flexing her wrists and cracking her knuckles, her eyes focused on one particular target, a heaving, two hundred and fifty pound sandbag.

Slash!

She imagined that she had made the perfect hit, but as she looked at the target, there was absolutely no damage whatsoever. But the knife was light as ever; nothing had changed.

_Strange. _

She tried again; same result. Tex forced herself to take a few deep breaths. She had messed up before. No big deal, right? Of course, now her life was on the line, and the Gamemakers' expression changed from excitement and curiosity to confusion, and even a tad bit of disappointment.

_You can do better than this, Tex. You know you can. Third time's the charm. _

But third time was not the charm, nor was the fourth. Her fingers ached from gripping the hilt so tightly, and it took every ounce of her self control to set the weapon down without smashing the table in. She turned her attention to a short, stubby dagger she had worked with hours before. One she had hit the target with straight on every time, without hesitation.

But now the weapon felt all wrong in her hands, and she was not surprised when she missed the sandbag by a good five inches.

Once, twice, three more times—three different weapons, all misses. Tex hung her head, her entire body trembling from holding back the effort to scream, to cry, to destroy everything in sight.

What happened to the Tex who could destroy every target in a fifty-foot radius? Was Church right? Had she truly changed, for the worse?

"I believe that will be enough, Texas." The Head Gamemaker was stern, unforgiving, and Tex felt as though she was covered in ice water, dripping from head to toe.

"Thank you," she said, stiffly.

She reached for the silver sword one last time, throwing it behind her back, not even caring where it landed. She pushed open the door to leave, and a quick turn of the head confirmed that the target had stuck in the sandbag, straight in its heart.

* * *

The Gamemakers weren't paying a lick of attention to him, and Maine wondered if they would even notice if he did something completely outrageous, like give them a striptease. True, most of the Gamemakers were male, but that had never stopped him before. And besides, there was a pretty blonde Gamemaker on the right that may have appreciated the show. Maine couldn't help himself—he winked at her, and he was surprised that she actually flushed and looked down at her plate.

However distracted he pretended to be with the Capitol people (he figured it couldn't hurt if he could charm any of them, especially during the interview tomorrow) there was only one person who could cause him to lose focus in a heartbeat. He had tried his best to keep his thoughts off her as he trained today, much at the insistence of his mentor, Simmons. But even the occasional glimpse of her—as she excelled at the knot tying station, or grabbed a bite to eat off the lunch cart, sent his focus well…southward, if he was going to put it bluntly.

Simmons hadn't taken raging, fourteen-year-old hormones as an excuse for anything, and as a result, Maine found himself doing fifty laps for each time he stopped his work to pay attention to her. Not that she had really noticed him much since the parade—she had barely spoken to him since, sticking like glue to her fellow District 4 tribute, and eating at the Careers' table, while he and Carolina ate alone. Carolina, at least, was sweet company; whenever Maine glanced over at the table where the two District 5 tributes—Cali and CT—sat, he would wince. They were stony with each other, completely and utterly silent, something that was beyond Maine's comprehension. How could you sit down next to someone and _not_ have a conversation?

Maine sighed, running his hand through his hair, a habit he always lapsed into when he was nervous about something. Normally, it was soothing. Tonight, it just managed to heighten his anxiety. The Gamemakers were paying attention to their wine glasses, and Maine cleared his throat loudly.

"Ahem."

"Uh, yes," said the Head Gamemaker. "Go ahead…Meta… is it?"

"Maine," Maine muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

One part of him stubbornly rebelled—if they couldn't even get his name right, why bother? But even so, he couldn't resist a little show. It was in his nature to make sure he wasn't ignored, and there was one thing he had not shown off with during training. He flexed his fingers, stretched his calves, and making sure their eyes were on him, he took off.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he ran, and he wanted to laugh from the sheer joy of it. This was where he belonged, faster than light, faster than the quickest animals in District 11—if he ran, nothing could ever catch up to him, no matter how hard they tried. He quickly leaped over the various obstacles used for the tributes' practice, well aware that at the speed he was going, he would flash in and out of sight, almost as if he were cloaked with invisibility.

He exhaled heavily, his lungs beginning to get the stretching feeling he disliked, his heart pumping too quickly for his liking. A signal to stop, to slow down. And normally when Maine ran he always did a few slow laps to make sure when he halted he wouldn't destroy anything in his wake. This time, however, so giddy from the day, it completely slipped his mind. So while he intended to stop in front of the Gamemakers table, he ended up doing a handspring, landing straight in the middle of it—or rather, in the middle of the roast pig they were enjoying.

Pork and people went flying, and Maine sat on top of the remains of the pig, trying to hold back the laughter that bubbled up in his throat. Every single Gamemaker was staring at him with pure shock, so he did the only thing he could do whilst sitting on a dead pig.

"My name is Maine, not Meta," he said, holding out his hand to the Head Gamemaker. "Nice to meetcha."


	7. I Guess You're Right

**A/N: Few things to point out here. One, my penname is a joke between me, To Kill A Mockingjay, and another FFN user who doesn't post many fics in this fandom. All credit to the 'frosting prince' nickname, however, goes to IsForWinners and her amazing fic, Wrong In All the Right Ways. I recommend you read it. **

**This was a chapter that ended up surprising me on a writing scale-I did not expect Delta to show up. For those who don't know RvB canon, each Freelancer has an AI that resides the helmet of their armor (they wear the Spartan armor seen in the Halo videogame) and the AI is named for a Greek letter. York's AI was Delta. ^^**

**Song for this chapter is "I Guess You're Right" by The Posies.  
**

* * *

"_I would prefer to stay with York."_

-Delta; Out of Mind: Part V

* * *

"Isn't it lovely?"

A pair of soft, pink-painted nails gripped Carolina's shoulders, and the only thing she could do was nod in agreement. The previous four hours had been spent with her prep team; they had taken scrubbing and plucking to a whole new level. She winced a little, her eyebrows still sore from their very thorough job. However, she had to admit they did their job well—again. They did something new with her hair today; instead of the soft waves woven with flowers during the parade, they straightened it so that it hung sleek and shiny down her back.

Her outfit, too, was very different—Donut insisted on playing her up as "innocent", and "angelic". As a result, she wore a dress that fell just below the knees, and gathered at an empire waist, under her bust—or where her bust would be, if she had developed one yet. It was a light cream color of a flower she had often seen in District 11, though her hair, instead of being swathed with the real thing, was clipped with a pearly barrette molded into the large bloom.

Donut gave her a very light kiss on her cheek, and true to his name, he smelled like warm, sweet pastries. "Good luck."

He and the rest of her prep team departed, leaving Carolina in her room alone. At least it wouldn't be for long. In less than twenty minutes she and Maine would be headed to the City Circle for their interviews. He would do well, she was certain of it. Maine had the type of personality that lit up the entire room, and managed to bring a smile to the face of even the sourest people. Yesterday, he had even managed to talk to the District 2 tribute, Tex, without her threatening to beat him to death with his own skull- a feat that no one else had yet to manage. Even her partner, Washington, stayed clear of her.

How lonely that must be!

Carolina had wanted to talk to Tex when she saw everyone else avoid the redhead. Surely, even if she was volatile, she had to have someone to love her. Someone she was missing back home. But Carolina didn't dare approach her, and she got the distinct feeling that Maine wouldn't let her even think of getting near Tex.

There was an obnoxious rap on the door, and Carolina jumped a little, laughing at her own ability to startle with ease. She _had_ to laugh—otherwise she would spend every minute crying, or shaking in fear.

"Who is it?" she called out, and got only laughter in response.

She tugged at the doorknob—why was everything here so impossibly heavy?—and it opened to reveal Maine leaning against the wall in a careless way, the tie from his suit already undone. Whatever they had put in his hair in an attempt to tame it either had not worked or he had washed it out, for it was messy as ever. Still, he looked good. Impossibly so, and Carolina tore her gaze from his eyes and focused on the floor, feeling her cheeks warm up.

She was grateful that with the layers of make-up that had been slathered on her face (for a "natural" look) it was not obvious that she was blushing, but the knowledge alone made her want to sink into the rich carpet and lie there until someone came to take her back to District 11.

"Hey there, little one," he said.

"I'm not little!" she protested, and he grinned, and waved his hand dismissively.

"Sorry," he replied, but he sounded far more flippant than apologetic. He held out his arm in an old fashioned gesture Carolina rarely saw. "Care to let me escort you, m'lady?" he asked in a ridiculous imitation of a Capitol accent.

"Yes, please," she giggled, and took his arm. It felt nice, when he held onto her like that. Yes, he may have been less stocky than some of the other male tributes, but he made Carolina feel protected, especially unusual considering where they were.

_Maybe…maybe we don't have to kill each other. I know they wouldn't ever let two tributes win again, but that doesn't mean I have to be the one that kills him, right?_

The elevator ride down from their quarters to the ground floor of the Training Center took less than thirty seconds. Carolina was so absorbed in her thoughts that for a brief moment, upon arrival, she had forgotten where she was, or what she was supposed to be doing. That reprieve was all too brief, however, and upon seeing the cameras, the thousands of people waiting, watching them, she felt as though the dazzling food Donut had ordered earlier would make a reappearance.

Maine gave her arm a gentle squeeze. "Are you okay?"

Mutely, Carolina shook her head, and he pulled her into a brief hug. "It'll be fine, I promise." He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. "For luck," he said, and Carolina could hear herself speaking, but she had no idea what she was saying.

It didn't matter, though, because their mentor, Simmons, was leading them out to the City Circle, and the only thing Carolina could register was the roar the crowds, the brightness of the filming lights reflecting off the candy-colored buildings of the Capitol.

She wanted more than anything to be gone, to be so far away from this false world of blood and roses, but she could not. So, from somewhere deep within her, she strengthened, and put a smile on her face.

The tribute from District 11. Cannon fodder.

That is all she would be to these people. Nothing more, nothing less. Carolina had never felt smaller in her life, and she caught Maine's eye, looking for his comfort. He gave her an arrogant, knowing wink, and inexplicably, she found herself standing just a little bit straighter.

If he could walk into his own death trap with a laugh, why couldn't she?

* * *

York was the last out of all twenty -four tributes to be interviewed, and he was torn between deciding whether this was a stroke of good luck, or ill fortune. A stage had been set up in front of the Training Center, in the heart of the City Circle. All of the tributes sat next to each other stiffly, waiting for their turn to be called up and talk to Caesar Flickerman, the ever constant host of the interview programs. Ever year, Caesar's hair, lip and eye shadow color changed, but the rest of him remained the same. This year he wore a shade of lilac that was particularly unbecoming. It made him look like a piece of bruised fruit.

South, too, wore lilac, but hers, mixed with lime green, made her seem radiant and years younger than Caesar, a contrast that was painfully obvious when she was questioned by the older man. She crossed her long legs, smiled, laughed a little, and York marveled at the change, so different from the furious girl he had seen only a few hours previous.

York had been coached on his interview approach by Peeta, and there had been hardly a hitch. However, South and Katniss could not say the same. York still wasn't entirely sure the details of what went on during that four hour session, but all of Katniss' professional veneer had been lost somewhere along the way, and South's voice was sore and raw from screaming.

York would have never guessed anything of the sort had happened had he not witnessed it, and he watched South banter easily with Caesar—or at least, she did until one, fateful question was asked.

"As all of us in Panem are aware, the Dakota twins are no strangers to the Games. How does it feel, South, to go into the arena a year after your twin's death?"

The near perfect, slightly naughty grin was wiped off South's face, and she sat up straight in her chair, no longer focusing on Caesar or anyone in the audience. Instead, those blue eyes flickered towards York for a fraction of a second, and York couldn't help it—he shivered a little.

"I feel nothing," she said. "Nothing at all."

Caesar looked like he was going to enquire further but the buzzer sounded, and York gripped the underside of his seat to keep himself from startling.

"Well folks, there you have it. Let's get a round of applause for South Dakota!"

South sauntered back to her seat, and as much as York wanted to look straight ahead, straight to the seat next to Caesar, he was drawn to her, and the dangerous, cat-like glint underneath this veneer she had created for herself. An appearance that York couldn't quite put the right adjective to. He had no time to mull on it further, however, as the spotlight was shining in his eyes, and it was his turn to speak.

Or at least, he would try. The probability of doing so was looking less and less likely, the more York realized how many people were before him, staring at him from their places in the City Circle. And how completely, utterly alone he felt above them, like they weren't even human like he was.

_Think of it as a puzzle. That's what you do best, right? Everyone has something they need to be unlocked—questions, secrets, whatever. That's what these are. The questions are locks, and your answer is the key. _

It was the only way he could keep himself sane, even if he knew the metaphor was stupid, and probably didn't make much sense logically. But logic had never been his strong suit, as his best friend back home liked to remind him.

"York?" Caesar raised an eyebrow, and York knew that there had probably been a whole lot of words before that 'York'. "A little distracted there, York?" Caesar laughed, not an unpleasant sound, though it did little to put York at ease. "Care to share what's on your mind?" Caesar leaned in, as if he were sharing some big secret. "A girl? Don't worry, we won't tell." He put his finger to his lips, and the audience exploded into laughter.

York hated himself for blushing. Girls hadn't been on his mind in…well, he couldn't remember the last time they had been. Sure, he wasn't completely innocent—he had kissed quite a few girls in his time, and gone a bit farther than kissing with several—but that wasn't something he wished to discuss on live television.

He was swept by bitterness, and he was certain it leaked into his tone when he said, "No. Not a girl. My best friend, back home."

"And who's that?"

"Delta," York replied, his voice softening a little.

The image of his best friend swum before York's eyes—Delta with his white blonde hair, Delta who somehow managed to be skinnier than York was, despite not living in the Seam. Delta with those complex, ridiculous words that never managed to roll off York's tongue _just right_. Delta beating York at chess in three, seemingly effortless moves. York's chest began to ache—it was Delta that he missed most of all; he was York's complete opposite in every way, and yet without him, York felt just a little bit empty on the inside, like he was not a full person without Delta.

"Tell us about him," Caesar prompted.

"Well, Delta is too logical for his own good," York replied, and the audience chuckled.

He hadn't meant for that to be funny; it was merely the truth. While Delta would counter that York was far too intuitive, and acted based on unreliable emotions, York would snap back that there was more to life than moves on a chessboard. But what he wouldn't give to have his friend with him now, to be by his side in the arena!

_No._

York shook his head.

_That isn't right. _

He would give everything and the world to keep Delta out of this, to keep himself out of this. To be back in the small house in the Seam, overrun by his little sisters. York didn't remember what else he said; the subject had quickly changed and he filled the air with just words. Words that meant nothing, words that didn't even belong to the person York believed he was, or who he wanted to be.

Empty words for the silly, empty-headed people in the Capitol.

But there were a few words that no matter how hard he wanted to forget, he never could. Words of South Dakota, who brashly took his hand when the buzzer sounded, and all the tributes filed out. Words that shot a stream of cold into his heart.

"You miss him more than anything, don't you?"


	8. A Girl Named Tex

**A/N: Early update for y'all because I have some sort of fever/infection and am off to the doctor's tomorrow. Martienne beta'd this chapter as usual and gave me some very useful feedback. The song quoted in Tex's flashback is Tex's theme in RvB, and is called "A Girl Named Tex" by Trocadero. Next chapter is the Games, by the way. After all this time. :P  
**

**I'm not usually the "review me!1!1!1!1!" type but today I just get rejected from my top choice college on top of being sick, so yeah, little things help. Y'all brighten my day you, every single one of you. :)  
**

**

* * *

**"_It's just part of what makes us human, Tex."_

-Delta; Out of Mind: Part V

* * *

Tex had a plan.

Eat well at dinner post-interview, crawl into bed and threaten to decapitate anyone who dared disturb her before they had to leave in the morning, for the arena.

But, unfortunately, that plan unraveled the moment she got into bed. Because no matter how hard she tried, her mind refused to quiet. When she closed her eyes all she saw was a thick, black 3—her score after the disastrous private meeting with the Gamemakers. She wanted to defend herself, but there was nothing to say, not really. It was her fault. It was all her fault; she should have known better.

And if that weren't enough, her devious, horrible, torturous memory would not let her forget certain parts of her interview.

"_So, Tex, tell us about your family."_

"_I have no family_."

It was the truth, wasn't it? Her mother didn't count; her mother had never been a proper mother, not in the way Tex ever needed her to be. So she took care of herself. She could do it, and she would do it. She never responded to the elders in the Community Home, and she never had to. She followed their rules—when she was in their boundaries—but beyond them, it was Tex's way, or the highway.

But still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had shoved someone to one side by saying that. She buried her face in the fluffy pillow, covering her ears with her elbows. But that did nothing to quell her internal riot, so she began to hum, the tune she had earlier when Tucker was styling her. At the time, she couldn't place where she remembered it from, but now that Tucker's babble was beyond her, the lyrics hit her straight in the face.

_Yellow rose of Texas clad in black, morning star tattooed upon on her back…_

She sat straight up in bed, startled by the memory of it.

She knew this song—how could she not know it? A hazy image began to appear before her eyes, obliterating the black 3.

_The girl is five years old, her bright red hair long and tangled. She is giggling, running around a house with polished wooden floors, slipping a little in her tiny, ruffled socks. A man's hands, strong and powerful, callused from mining stone, steady the girl and she smiles at him, running into his arms. _

"_Daddy!" she cries, and he laughs, the laughter echoing across the plain, whitewashed walls. She joins in, high pitched tone in harmony with his gravelly bass. _

"_Sing my song!" she insists, tugging on his shirt. "Sing the Tex song!"_

"_Okay," he says. "But only if you promise to help your Momma out with dinner."_

_The girls' amber eyes are glowing. "I promise, I promise!"_

_He holds her close, and she snuggles her face into his shirt while he sings. _

"_Have you heard the story of a girl named Beth, now known as Tex…"_

Tex climbed out of bed, her bare feet practically silent on the soft carpet. She had no idea where her Dad had learned the song from, or why the girl's name in the story was Beth, before becoming Tex. He had told later that he once knew that girl, that girl called Tex. But her name hadn't been Beth. It was Allie.

Allison.

Tex's middle name.

Tex walked towards the window. It took up practically the entire right wall of her room, and someone had drawn the curtains in preparation for sleep. She pressed the tiny, hidden button embedded on the wall, and the curtains opened seamlessly, giving off a dizzying view of the Capitol below. She pressed her hands to the glass, feeling once again like that five year old, where the rest of the world was so big, and she was so tiny and helpless.

What would her Dad think, about her being in the Games? He hadn't approved of her mother starting to train her, later that year.

"Let her be a child, Alina," he had said, and her mother had given some sharp, biting reply.

She could see her reflection clearly, despite the pulsing, decadent lights that illuminated the Capitol buildings. Seventeen, and nearly six feet tall by now. Arms crossed over her breasts, a flash of pale skin in between the waistband of her black pajama shorts, and her tank top. Freckles gone, and so was the baby fat that had gathered around her belly and hips. Bare, callused feet—the only thing that remained of the little girl with that bright red hair.

_Would he even recognize me?_

Tex shuddered, and turned away from the window, crawling back into bed. It didn't matter what he thought. She'd just be talking to ghosts. Tomorrow was her day, the first day of the Games, and she had to conserve her energy.

But even as she turned out her light again, and closed her eyes, those ghosts never stopped lingering.

* * *

Carolina had fallen asleep at the dinner table, giddy on the wine she had been given, and from the release of her nerves. Maine had waved off the Avoxes—mutes at the Capitol's beck and call—and said he was going to take her to her room himself.

She was far lighter than any normal twelve-year-old girl should be and Maine had to bite back his sudden, all consuming fury at everything. They wanted to send a girl who must have weighed less than eighty pounds into the wilderness, for certain death?

He brushed back a stray piece of her dark hair that had come undone from her flower clip. She didn't even look twelve. More like the little sister he never had. Not someone he could even dream of killing. Or watch anyone kill.

The door to her room was unlocked, and he laid her gently on the bed, placing a pillow under her head. He gazed around the room—for all the splendor and excess there wasn't even a spare quilt lying around. He figured there would be automatic temperature adjusts should she get too cold, but Maine didn't like to imagine that. To imagine her shivering, and have nothing to grab if she so needed. However, he didn't feel right in moving her and placing her under the sheets now, and he _definitely_ didn't feel right in taking off the flimsy party clothes and putting her in the woolen pajamas that were innocently folded on a chair in the corner.

Maybe he should have had someone take care of it.

He was just about to leave the room, to call Simmons or someone over to take care of her, when he noticed it. Sitting there, on a table by the door. The only personal possession in the entire room. At first glance, it just looked like a clump of dirty rags. Maine wrinkled his nose; who would leave something like that there?

But on closer inspection, he understood immediately.

This was Carolina's token. Each tribute was allowed to have one item from home with them in the arena, under the conditions it was non-lethal, and could not be used as any sort of weapon. Maine hadn't brought a token with him, but he was not surprised Carolina had.

_Poor kid…_

He picked the item up off the desk, and turning it between his fingers, he realized what it was. A tiny, hand-sewn stuffed animal made of grey flannel. A child's toy, a comfort creature. Maine ran his hands over it, over the flannel that was so worn it was practically paper-thin in some places. Stitches that were miniscule but strong. He had seen the animal itself too many times to count, of course. It was far too common where he lived, and if he was going to be honest, he kind of hated the damned things.

With a sigh, Maine put the token back down on the table, shut off the lights, and closed the door behind him. It was getting late; he should have already been asleep.

The arena waited for him tomorrow.

And so would Carolina, clutching her tiny, flannel mockingjay.


	9. Tip of the Spear

**A/N: Now that we have reached the Games each chapter will be from the single POV of a character. To tie this back to RvB (and ****Halo) in as many ways as possible, my arena is based on the Forge World map. Therefore this week's quote choice is from Reach ****and not RvB. Song choice is also from the Halo Reach soundtrack, the Tip of the Spear campaign level. **

**Have I mentioned I actually suck at playing Halo? ;)  
**

* * *

"_Emile, go with her. It's a ground game now."_

"_It's been an honor, sir."_

"_Likewise."_

_-Carter and Emile (discussing Noble Six); Halo: Reach_

_

* * *

_

When she woke up in the morning she was still in her interview dress, though it was wrinkled in several places. The flower hair clip was gone, and her head pounded a little. She sat up, wiggling her toes, and looked out the window—it couldn't have been past five am. The sky was streaked with shades of purples and pinks, and if she hadn't been so tired and achy she would have smiled.

There was a polite knock at the door, and she put her hands to her head. Even the smallest of sounds felt like a drum against her throbbing temples.

"Carolina, honey, are you in there?"

Donut. Of course. The knowledge that he was close brought Carolina a small shred of comfort, and she rushed to the door.

He took her in his arms instantly, and even though her stomach roiled at the scent of whatever he had eaten for breakfast, she clung to him. He, however, noticed her discomfort and pulled away as gently as he could.

"You're looking a bit green there." He handed her a small bottle of water. "Drink." And then we have to get you all saddled up and out of here, okay?"

"All right," she whispered, and took a few sips of the water while Donut unwrapped a brown package, containing a simple, white cotton shift. Her proper arena clothes would be given to her in the underground catacombs there, before the Games began. She dressed as quickly as she could, though everything felt off kilter, angled to the right. She couldn't tell if it was a result of extreme anxiety, or the wine she had been given last night, or both, but she left the room without a second glance, only pausing to grab her mockingjay toy.

She forced herself not to look behind her when the door shut with a barely audible click. She was tired of goodbyes, and walking away was the easiest thing to do.

* * *

"Now, hold still." Carolina grimaced as a far-too-cheery woman readied a syringe with a dangerous looking needle.

"Why?" She hoped the woman couldn't hear the fear in her voice, but the shadow of a smile on the woman's face indicated to Carolina that she enjoyed her job just a little _too_ much.

"I have to put in the tracker, so everyone knows where you are in the arena. The more you hold still, the less it will hurt."

Carolina gritted her teeth as the tracker was inserted—if holding still meant less pain she couldn't even begin to imagine what it would feel like had she been moving around. When the woman was finished the hovercraft carrying Carolina and her prep team to the arena began to descend. The windows were covered so she couldn't get a glance of the environment she was about to spend the next few weeks in, the only light rushing in once the doors were open, and she was in the underground catacomb known as the "Launch Room". Donut fussed with her hair, tying it up and tucking it beneath the olive green cap she received in the package of clothes each tribute was required to wear. He helped her dress in the rest of it—fatigue style pants in the same shade of green as the cap, a simple grey t-shirt, and a brown blazer-type jacket that was just a tad too big for her in the sleeves.

He tried pushing more food on her, water, anything, but Carolina wasn't hungry. In fact, she didn't feel anything at all as Donut wrapped his arms around her, and whispered "Good luck, honey." The numbness, much like pins and needles, traveled up her feet, spread out across her arms and torso and finally her head, leaving her scalp tingling. She stepped onto the metal plate that would take her into the arena, a glass tube covering it so that she was trapped inside.

There was no getting out now, no running away. Carolina reminded herself to keep breathing as the plate began to rise, and she could hear the voice of Claudius Templesmith, announcer for the Games, through a loudspeaker.

"Ladies and Gentleman, let the 77th Hunger Games begin!"

* * *

The first thing that brought Carolina out of her stupor was the immensity of the place. It stretched as far as she could see and she was certain it went beyond that, too. The sky was a cerulean blue, soft and tamed, and in the corner a silver Halo shone in the sunlight. Carolina could hear the pounding sound of a waterfall somewhere, though she couldn't see it within the vicinity.

The terrain was a cross between green and mountainous, with cliffs covering most of the arena, atop which perched a forest that appeared to have no end. In one of these rocky outcroppings, a good 50 yards away from her, stood the Cornucopia, a golden horn at least twenty feet high, the mouth of which was piled high with any supplies the tributes would need for surviving in this wilderness. The most valuable items were in the heart of it, with less valuable ones scattered on the outskirts. It was common for tributes to fight to the death in this initial foraging for supplies, a bloodbath so immense that the cannon used to sound a tribute's death wasn't activated until hours later, once the chaos died down and blood stopped flying.

The tributes only had sixty seconds to ready themselves before they were allowed to step off their metal plates and sprint towards the Cornucopia; any less than that and they would be blown to pieces by the landmines activated underneath the plates. Time was ticking away, however, and Carolina readied herself to run—not to the Cornucopia; far from it. She knew she could get overwhelmed easily by the Careers if she tried to get supplies. Best to follow her ears and run towards the sound of that waterfall, wherever it was. She looked to her right, scanning the line of tributes for Maine. And sure enough, there he was, a few people down, confident and smiling as always.

The gong sounded, and instantly the tributes took off. Carolina could only hear the pounding of her own heart as she turned in the opposite direction, trying to block out anything but the waterfall.

_It can't be that far…_

The terrain was rougher under her boots than she expected, and she had to struggle to keep her balance as the rocks jutted beneath her. One misstep and at the very least she was looking at a twisted ankle, a death trap here so close to the Cornucopia.

_One foot in front of the other. Right, left, right, left, rig—_

She didn't see the flash of blonde hair until it was too late. There was a sudden, blinding pain in the back of her head, and she cried out, watching as her blood spattered across the ground.

And then, nothing at all.

* * *

Sizzling.

That was what it felt like when she opened her eyes, and she squirmed a little. A rough, callused hand covered her mouth.

"Don't. Move."

She must have squeaked some sort of reply, because the figure hissed in her ear, their breath burning on the back of her neck.

"Be quiet. You're dead, okay? Now don't move." The figure retreated, their footsteps near silent.

She did as she was told, and in her haze she could hear voices, two or three.

"Pity," said one, though the speaker didn't sound sad at all. "Seems someone already got to her before us. She may have been useful for something."

"Like what?" Someone else asked. Definitely a girl, judging by the pitch of their voice.

"Distraction. Bait," replied the first voice. "Her stupid partner, for sure. He's protective of her, the idiot. Or, of course, we could always use you. He's been making cow eyes at you ever since the parade."

"Shut it, Tenn." The girl again. "She wasn't hurting anyone. And leave Maine out of this."

"Did I hurt a nerve, Mass?"

"My. Name. Is. Not. Mass."

"Touchy, touchy, _Massa_. What, can't stand the thought of your precious _boyfriend_ feeling the tip of my spear?"

"Maine is not my boyfriend. He's just…he's…"

"Cat got your tongue, Mass? Maybe Tex could fix that. She's proved her worth around here."

An irritable sigh. "Tenn, just pay attention instead of talking. You want to guard the supplies so bad? Well go and—"

The sound of a cannon cut off the rest of Massa's words, and Carolina winced as the sound reverberated through her body.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

The bloodbath at the Cornucopia must be over now, and any minute hovercrafts would show up and take away the dead. Carolina willed herself not to move a muscle, to keep completely silent, but the pain in the back of her head was getting too intense to ignore, and there was a throbbing in her right ankle that indicated she may have twisted it when she fell.

"Come on," said Tenn. "Let's get outta here before the hovercrafts show up. Besides, if we don't watch over Rhode he'll probably eat our entire stash. Remind me again why we decided to team up with District 1 again?"

"Because you couldn't keep your eyes off of Jersey's boobs," Massa muttered under her breath, her footsteps getting quieter as the pair retreated.

For a few minutes, there was only silence, but Carolina didn't dare get up, or even open her eyes.

_Count to three. And then go. _

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

She opened her eyes, and the sunlight reflecting off the silver Halo in the distance instantly blinded her. She squeezed her eyes shut again and very slowly sat up, listening for the sounds of people.

"Didn't I tell you to stay down?"

Carolina opened her eyes and found herself face to face with the boy from District 12. Carolina scrambled backwards, her hands instantly assaulted by the branches and pebbles on the ground.

"What…what…do you want?" She couldn't keep her voice from trembling, as much as she wanted to.

"To help you," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"But…why?" Carolina shrunk back from the hand he held out to her.

"I have five younger sisters," he said simply. "Coast is clear now. Think you can stand on that ankle?"

She would have nodded, but any movement of her head caused a pain so intense that it sucked the breath out of her lungs. "Y-yeah. Maybe." She struggled to her feet, but as soon as she put any weight on her ankle, hurt shot up her calf. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from crying, and the District 12 boy shook his head.

"None of that," he said, and before she could protest he scooped her into his arms and carried her the way a storybook knight would.

It was strange, how safe she felt when he was holding her, and she found herself smiling a little. He walked as fast as he could, and soon seeing the greenery at an accelerated pace made her feel too dizzy to continue paying attention to her surroundings. She could feel her eyelids getting heavier with the constant thrum of her head, and she gave in to sleep. From somewhere far away she could hear her voice, faint and raspy, asking the boy what his name was.

"York," he replied, and she remembered nothing more.


	10. The Good Left Undone

**A/N: This chapter was originally supposed to be from York's POV, but it just wasn't working. So yeah, now the pattern has been broken. Blame my muse for that. Much thanks to Martienne for looking over this chapter-I wrote her a bonus oneshot for this 'verse, called Graphite and Papercuts, as a belated birthday present if any of y'all want to read it. **

**Shameless plug aside, song for this chapter is "The Good Left Undone" by Rise Against. Oh, and there is a bit of cursing in this chapter. Nothing extreme, but he's a teenage boy. They curse; that's just how it rolls. :P  
**

* * *

_I would like to remind the sub-committee members that anything is possible. Some things are probable. This is what is. And my agency, as it always has, will continue to deal with what it is. _

_Until it is no more. _

_-The Director of Project Freelancer; Reconstruction Trailer_

_

* * *

_

Maine didn't hesitate.

Running so fast he was nearly invisible was his specialty. He would be stupid not to go into the heart of the Cornucopia and grab whatever he could find. He would make no point in actually hanging around the area—the Careers usually commandeered it and kept camp close by, and he wanted nothing to do with them. Not even with Massa, if she wanted to hang around them.

Or at least, that's what he told himself as he darted out of the heart of the mess with a large knapsack for his minimal trouble. He didn't dare take more than that; he didn't want to linger more than he had to. He was slower than his preferred standard anyway, as he constantly had to dodge sharp rocks and branches that littered the grass. Hitting anything at this speed would be disastrous, and carried heavier consequences than just crashing into a tableful of dead pig. Scanning over the tributes who were locked in various states of battle, bloodied and bruised and dirty, he couldn't spot Carolina, and his stomach dropped a little.

He should be relieved that she wasn't in the midst of everything…but what if she hadn't been able to get out? He began to wheeze, and he slowed his pace. In an arena this huge there was little he could do, and calling out her name would be downright stupid. If she was hiding somewhere, he'd only give her away.

He passed Wash as he darted between two cliffs, growing more and more desperate for peace in this chaos. The seventeen year old was locked in hand to hand fighting with one of the District Five tributes—CT, maybe? Maine couldn't remember the name right now, and he didn't care.

Or at least, he didn't until he heard a distinct ripping sound, right at the elbow of his jacket sleeve. The fabric was torn, and when he looked up he was staring right into the dark blue eyes of Washington, whose knife was stained with blood.

* * *

"Son of a bitch!"

Maine hadn't opened his pack; he had no idea what he had in terms of weapons. The only weapon he had was his own body, and when Wash lunged for him again Maine darted to the right, feeling a whoosh of air as the knife sliced into nothingness, barely missing his ear. He could feel the blood dripping down his forearm, and he winced, beginning to get a little light-headed.

_You have to get out of here, Maine. Now. _

With the pain coursing through his veins, the only thing he wanted to do was beat Wash into a bloody pulp. However, with how quickly he was losing blood, he knew this was not an option. So, instead, he took one long, ragged breath and took off.

He could hear another knife whiz past him, and he held out his hand, hoping to catch it. If he somehow managed to grab it at the wrong angle…well, he didn't need all of his fingers, right? Today, however, seemed to be his lucky day, as he felt the smooth handle in his hand instead of the blade.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he called back to Washington, blowing him a kiss with sticky, bloodstained fingers. He had no doubt the Career was seething, and so for good measure, Maine flipped him off as well.

_Now where to go…_

To the right of the Cornucopia there was a rocky ledge that lead to the mouth of…a cave? Something, at least, though Maine couldn't make out what.

_It has to be better than this._

He made sure his backpack was secure, tucked the knife into the side pocket, and began to climb. Normally scaling a ledge like this would have never given Maine a problem; it would be effortless. Right now, though, with blood staining the entire sleeve of his jacket red, he felt himself getting weaker by the minute. The world was tilting, and he tried to clear his breath, but to no avail.

_You can do this. You've done it plenty of times before. Just don't look down…_

Looking up, however, didn't do him much good either. The wall was looming, tilting, and every time he tried to get a foothold he felt as though he was slipping backwards. His hands were slick with blood, and it took every ounce of his strength to keep himself moving upward. Inch by agonizing inch he did so. Every movement caused the pain in his arm to increase, his breath becoming more and more difficult to catch.

It looked endless, but finally when he reached upwards his hands touched damp moss instead of rock, and he leaned over, his head spinning.

_Breathe. Just breathe. _

The alcove he was in was dark and cold and he began to shiver uncontrollably. Further up he could see a brief shimmer of light, and he wondered if he was hallucinating. But when the wind began to pick up, howling against the stone walls, he decided he didn't care if it was a mirage; he was getting out. He attempted to stand upright but dizziness threatened to overpower him, so he made his way on his hands and knees. The path of light got wider as the rocks shredded the knees of his pants, beginning to scrape the skin of his kneecaps. But that didn't matter; nothing did except the light, which opened up to another wide ledge, offering a view of the most breathtaking canyon Maine had ever seen in his life.

The image swam before his eyes for a few moments, and he could feel his eyelids getting heavier. He wanted more than anything to sleep, but he knew the danger in doing so—what if someone else found this ledge, too? He sat down on the sun-warmed moss, with his good arm on his pack. Opening it with one hand was a challenge, and after several minutes of swearing, he managed to do so, spreading the bounty out item by item.

A small flask of water. Some bandages. A few cans of…some fruit Maine had never seen before. Bread. A small first aid kit, with a few fever reducing pills, and a solution to clean wounds with. Beef jerky. A sleeping bag. A rain jacket.

All in all, pretty good.

Maine grabbed a bandage, and very slowly rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, prepared for the worst. What he wasn't prepared for, however, was a wound so deep that the bone showed just a little. Nor was he prepared to retch up his breakfast on the rocks next to his pack. But he did, and when the overwhelming tiredness returned, Maine gave up on attempting to patch up his arm, and gave into the darkness that followed.

* * *

"Well, I'll be damned. I have two of them now."

"Wha?" Maine shot out of his stupor, his hand reaching for his knife on pure instinct. He nearly doubled over from the agony of his bad arm, and he gritted his teeth to keep himself from crying out, or vomiting again. His mouth was still bitter from the morning, and judging by the sun in the sky, he would guess it was a little past noon now.

"Whoa, calm down there. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"And…" Maine panted for breath, "I should believe you because…?" He would turn to face whoever was addressing him, but his body was telling him that was a terrible idea.

"Touché, I suppose. But considering I have Carolina with me—"

"You have Cara?" With that, Maine forced himself to rise to his feet, and the wave of pain electrified his nerves in response. He quickly shifted the knife to his good hand, and took a good look at the person addressing him. Olive skin, thick black hair, and grey eyes. The tribute from 12, maybe? Maine's mind was still fuzzy, and names were the last thing on his priority list at the moment.

"Yeah. She's passed out again, though. I left her in the cave, but within eyesight."

"What did you do to her?" Maine made unsteady steps towards the boy, his hand with the knife trembling. "What the hell did you do to her?"

The boy threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Nothing! I swear! When I found her she was already knocked out. Someone hit her in the back of her head."

Maine made a noise of disgust. "Yeah, take out the weakest first. That's the Hunger Games for ya'."

_Watch your mouth, Maine. It's far too easy for Gamemakers to make your last days hell._

The boy's grey eyes did not focus on Maine's face, only the knife in his hand, but Maine made no movement to lower the weapon.

"Look," said the boy. "Can't we just…I dunno…talk or something? I'm not big on…well…confrontation."

"Yeah, 'cause diplomacy is really gonna get you places here." Maine rolled his eyes. "Just leave. I'll watch over Carolina from here. She's my responsibility, not yours."

_For now. You can't watch over her forever. _

"You'll do a damn fine job protecting her when you can barely stand upright!" The boy shot back, and Maine hated him for being right. Not that he would ever admit it, of course.

"Like you can do any better." Maine cleared his throat and imitated the boy, "_I'm not big on…well…confrontation_."

The boy's cheeks flushed, and for the first time, he looked Maine straight in the eyes. "Do that again, and I'll make sure to finish that job on your arm."

Maine grinned, and took another step towards him. "Now we're getting somewhere. Though you don't look like much of a fighter to me."

"Want to bet on it?"

"No, not particularly. Not that there's any point in doing so. I'd only win."

The boy crossed his arms over his chest. "Prove it."

Maine lunged towards the boy, only to stagger a few inches to the right, and fall to his knees, shaking. The throbbing in his arm was too much. It had nothing to do with fear. Nope, not one bit.

_Yeah, right. If you're afraid to kill, how do you expect to survive?_

The boy raised his chin, wearing an expression of both pride and amusement. "That's what I thought."

Maine seethed. "Now that you're done proving me wrong, are you going to just stand there and leave Carolina in that cave?"

"It's better than nothing," the boy replied.

"And it's freezing in there."

"But she's hidden, at least. I could spot you a mile away, when you were passed out here."

It took all of Maine's self control to not punch the boy in the face. That, at least, he'd be able to manage.

_Maybe. Possibly. Probably not. _

"Why do you have to be so damn right?"

"I'm gonna ignore that," the boy muttered. He held his hand out to Maine, pulling him up from the ground. "Name's York."

"Maine," Maine replied.

"I knew that already."

"Good." Maine gave York the most confident look he could, considering the circumstances. "I like to think I'm unforgettable."

York sighed. "Are you always such an arrogant jackass?"

"I try."

* * *

"Well…" York cleared his throat, applying the last bandage. "I've seen worse."

"Oh, really?" Maine had to admit, York had done a pretty good job of cleaning up his arm, though Maine hadn't asked for his help. 'I'm here to assist' was what York had said in response to Maine's weak protest.

York shrugged his shoulders. "From the mines. One of my mentors—"

"Katniss Everdeen," Maine broke in. "She's kinda hot, you know."

"Thanks for that necessary tidbit of information. Now can you let me finish without interrupting?"

"Sorry."

_Not really. _

"Anyway." York put the bandages back into Maine's pack. "Her mom is a healer. Been a few times my Dad needed her. Or my sisters, when they get sick. Usually afterward my mom sends me over with a little food. We can't pay much but…it's something, at least. My mom's a great cook." York rummaged through the backpack, pulling out the beef jerky. "Do you mind?"

"Nope."

_Yes. _

York tore into a piece, and continued talking, this time with his mouth full. "Miss her a lot. 'Specially when all we have is this." He gestured towards the minimal food. "You miss yours?"

"Huh?" Maine was busy testing his arm, moving it this way and that. The bleeding had dried up, and even though he still felt a bit woozy, it was beginning to wear off.

"Your family," York said, taking another bite. "You miss 'em?"

Maine squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. He hadn't allowed himself to think of his Dad since he'd said goodbye, and here was the last place on Earth he wanted to talk about his mom. It wasn't long after her death that he began to run more, to refine his raw skill. Better to move away from it. Because if he ran fast enough, he didn't even need to think; it was pure instinct. He only wished it could be that way all the time. So, instead, he snatched a few pieces of the beef, and then put the rest in the pack.

"Gotta ration, unless you know how to hunt or fish or something."

"Yeah. You're right. Sorry." York looked a little sheepish. "And I don't. But…" He leaned in towards Maine, and lowered his voice a little. "I know how to steal."

Maine shrugged his shoulders and tilted his body towards the afternoon sun, letting it warm him. "Who doesn't?"

"I consider it a hobby. Pick-pocketing, lock-picking, breaking and entering."

Maine yawned. "Am I supposed to be impressed or something?"

"A little appreciation would be nice, considering I just fixed up your arm."

"Okay. I _appreciate_ you, and your oh-so-skilled hands, my dearest York."

"I can see the gratitude oozing from your pores," York said, standing up and dusting off his pants.

"Damn straight," replied Maine lazily.

"I'm going to go check on Carolina." York fiddled with the straps on the backpack, grabbing the flask of water. "See if I can wake her up and get her something to drink."

"Take some of the bread, too. And clean her head up real good. Countin' on you and your _skills_ here."

"Asshole," York muttered, but did as Maine said, disappearing into the mouth of the alcove.

Maine could hear the low murmur of Carolina's voice, and York's reply, but they were just far away enough that Maine couldn't make out what they were actually saying. It didn't take long for both of them to return, York's hand in Carolina's tiny one.

Seeing her like that caused Maine's anger to rise to the surface again—he wanted nothing more than to get the person who had hurt her. And Wash, too, for good measure. Maine generally wasn't the type to hold a grudge but pain, lack of sleep, and food made him less forgiving at the moment. He tried not to show it when Carolina was near, and he was reminded of his father, who had tried and failed to hide his inner turmoil from Maine. The thought only soured his mood further, and he tried to keep his tone neutral.

"How ya' feeling?"

"Sleepy," Carolina murmured, leaning up against York, who began to stroke her hair, supporting her around the waist.

"There's a sleeping bag in the pack," Maine said, looking pointedly at York. "That's gotta be better than being in the alcove."

York reached into the pack, letting go of Carolina to do so. The twelve-year-old swayed on her feet a little, and she pressed her hand to her forehead. Maine's heart twisted a little at the sight. Simmons had told him privately to stay away from alliances, but Maine couldn't bring himself to abandon her. York, he could give or take, really, though the fifteen-year-old was starting to grow on him a bit. As much as an annoying, prideful, know-it-all could do.

"Do I have to go back there?" Carolina looked up at Maine with those big brown eyes. "I, um, I…don't like the dark much."

"No, you don't." There was no way he could refuse a look like that.

Carolina nodded, and yawned. "Okay."

She curled up on the sleeping bag and closed her eyes, instantly back asleep. Maine was reminded of a kitten he had found once, curled up in the same way, weak and pink-nosed and sniveling. His mom had cared for it for a few weeks, but some wild animal or another had carted it off one night, never to be seen again. He swallowed, the nausea coming back full force, though this time it had nothing to do with his arm.

He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, just like he had the night of the interview. "For luck," he said, echoing words that felt a lifetime old.

'_Cause we're gonna need as much of it as we can get_.


	11. Slaughter

**A/N: Much thanks to Martienne for beta-ing, as per usual. I still struggled with the memory lead in, and I know the one I replaced it with isn't my best...but I seriously couldn't figure out a way to fix it. Anyway, song for this chapter comes from the Inglorious Basterds soundtrack-Slaughter by Billy Preston. **

* * *

_"Yes, he asks about you, too, Tex. It's almost as if the two of you are of the same mind."_

_"That's not funny."_

_-Wyoming and Tex (discussing Omega), Out of Mind, Part One. _

* * *

Everything was surreal.

Tex stared down at her knife, and the spare cloth bandage she was using to clean it. She would prefer something better, but it was either that, a sleeping bag, or her own clothes, and she refused to cake up her only outfit with blood. Not for petty reasons, like she imagined Massa would have. She was used to blood, but that didn't mean getting it on herself was the smartest or most practical decision in the world.

Once the knife shone in the last few rays of fading sunlight, Tex put it to one side and placed her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, hoping to look like she was paying attention to whatever Tenn was explaining to the group.

It was traditional for those in Districts 1, 2 and 4 to make alliances, only to pick off each other near the end of the Games, a strategy that had been drilled into Tex since she was young. But after spending five minutes in the company of Tenn, Massa, Rhode, and Jersey, Tex wanted to decapitate them all. Except possibly Wash. He'd be good for a few things, and then she'd probably off him. If someone else didn't get to him first.

It would be all too easy, really, with her strengths, now that she had put the silver sword incident behind her. Yet…yet whenever she wanted to get up and do so, something held her back. Was it Omega, the District 6 tribute she had killed today?

He had not been the only one, but Tex couldn't get him out of her mind. And no matter how many deep breaths she took, or stupid things she did to keep herself busy around the Careers' camp, her hands wouldn't stop shaking. It had been engaging work, setting up camp on a cliff above and to the right of the Cornucopia. A trek to climb up, but it gave the perfect view of the supplies still left behind, should another tribute dare enter their territory.

She had made out pretty well at the Cornucopia that morning, with a new set of knives, a bow and arrow—she had never used one before but it couldn't be too difficult—and more food than she could dream of. Therefore it was a complete surprise when a tiny silver parachute interrupted her, just as she was putting the final knife to one side. A sponsor, though she had no idea what could possibly be in the package; at the moment she wanted for nothing. Still, she wasn't going to say no to a gift.

When she opened the package, she understood immediately. A loaf of bread from home, a thick dark loaf dense with nuts and fruit, still warm from the oven. The instant the scent of it hit her, she was thirteen again.

* * *

_He is waiting for her by her locker when she finishes her final class of the day, the way he always has since the week they met, three months ago. She hadn't expected him to do it that first week, especially considering their first meeting involved her punching him in the face. But still, she is grateful that he is there, though it is never something she says out loud. It's far better than returning to the community home. She has only been there a year, and the idea she has to spend another five there is nearly unbearable. _

_She has no idea how he understands this, or if he even does. Maybe he just likes spending time with her, though she can't possibly imagine why. She doesn't have any friends in school, and she isn't even sure if she can call him a friend yet. They just sort of were, in their little after school routine. _

"_Tex," he says, his black hair in desperate need of a trim. _

"_Church." _

_She has always called him Church, not Leonard. She knew that he preferred it that way, and it is the only concession she gives him. Everything else is fair game, including the glasses he hates, and doesn't wear if he can help it. Which, of course, leads him to bump into things like a blind person. She always stops him if he's about to hit something dangerous, but otherwise she doesn't bother, mainly because it's not her job to be his damn babysitter. And it's just a tiny bit funny to see him bump into a school desk and cuss up a storm. _

"_Ready to go?" He asks, fiddling with something in his pocket. _

"_Do I look ready, Church?" She swipes her bangs out of her face. Her hair is French braided today, mainly because her bunkmate in the community home, a small girl named Junia, wouldn't let up about fixing her hair. Since Tex didn't want to put her with her begging anymore, she said yes. The girl reminds Tex of herself back when she was seven, and as a result, most of the time she likes to pretend Junia isn't there. _

_Seven year old Tex was happy. Seven year old Tex had a father. _

_But now, she is on her own. Tex hangs her head and begins to cram things in her locker, far from her usual neat precision. _

_Church raises an eyebrow at this and opens his mouth to say something, but Tex cuts him off. _

"_Don't even think about it." _

_The glint in her eyes is so dangerous that he nods, and hastily changes the subject. "We're going somewhere new today."_

"_Oh, really?" Tex slams the locker door shut and picks her schoolbag up off the floor."Dare I ask where?"_

_Normally they walk along a particularly winding path a few miles away from the school. It's on the edge of one of the many mountains that eventually will form the chain surrounding the Capitol. Rocky, rugged, and difficult, it suits Tex just fine. _

_He shoots her a superior look. "That would be telling."_

"_Church…" She says through gritted teeth, in a tone she has reserved especially for him. _

"_It's a surprise. You'll like it, I promise."_

"_I don't like surprises," she mumbles, and he rolls his eyes. _

"_Of course you don't. Besides, it's not walking weather." _

"_Nothing wrong with a little rain, Church. Unless, of course, you're afraid of messing up that fabulous hairstyle you have going on." _

"_There's a thunderstorm, Tex. Probably gonna be lightening. I would like to avoid becoming a human torch if I can help it."_

_She strides towards the door and he rushes to catch up with her. "Fine. But don't expect me to like it or anything."_

"_I think you will," he says, and he reaches for her hand. _

_Normally, she pushes him away when he shows affection like this, but truth be told, thunderstorms makes her skin crawl, and she's grateful of the warmth of him. _

"_It's just down the street, I promise."_

_It is pouring rain when they get outside, and it doesn't take long, even with her hood pulled up over her head, to get soaked to the bone. But he's right; it doesn't take long to get to their destination, a small one-story house in a quiet, residential neighborhood mainly composed of quarry workers. He leads her up the path and opens the bright red door with ease, kicking off his shoes in the hall. _

"_Mom, I'm home!"_

_Tex takes off her sweatshirt; the house is warm and cozy, with stucco walls and painted in bright, rich colors that remind her of the sunset. _

"_Mom?" Church calls, letting go of Tex's head and waving her down the hall. "I bet she's in the kitchen or something. Come on."_

_Tex hesitates. He wants her to meet his mother? Really? What in the world possessed him to think this was a good idea? Tex made a mental note to repay him for this, and the humiliation that is sure to follow. She figures, however, it is best not to beat the ever loving hell out of him right now. _

_She leaves her high-tops (covered in stupid doodles drawn with a black marker in study hall) on instead of padding down the hallway in socks like Church. The stone floors look inviting, but she feels out of place here, with all their coziness, and she is afraid if she allows herself to relax, to let down her guard, it will all blow up in her face at some point or another. _

_Still, she follows him down one hallway, then another, until the scent of baking bread gets stronger, the air itself thick with the heat of it. _

"_Mom!" Church enters the room—there appear to be no doorways in this part of the house, merely arches, the edges covered in tile painted with different designs. The one directly above her is a beautiful, glazed yellow rose and she squeezes her eyes shut, dizzy. _

"_Mom isn't here, dumbass."_

_A short, dark-haired boy sits at a carved wooden table, chewing on a pencil as he looks down at some schoolbook or another. He is an exact miniature of Church, down to the electric blue eyes and the slightly pointed chin. The only difference is a black eye, the bruise fresh and still a little swollen. _

"_Shut up, Epsilon. 'Sides, you shouldn't be cussing to begin with."_

"_Yeah, and you're a shining example of how to behave, Lenny."_

_Tex snorted. Lenny? Mental note: use that at some point. _

_Church walks over to Epsilon and shoves him a little. "Don't call me Lenny. Now scram and go do your homework in your room."_

_Epsilon snickers. "Fine, whatever. Wouldn't want to interrupt your time with your precious Tex." He turns to Tex. "He talks about you all the freakin' time, you know. It's starting to get annoying. Well, not starting to. It's been annoying since it first started."_

_Church is beet red, and clenches his hands into fists. "Shut the hell up and get out, Ep. Now."_

_Epsilon gathers up his papers and hops down from the chair. "All right, I'm goin', I'm goin'."_

_His footsteps fade, and Tex turns to Church, who is busying himself slicing the bread on the counter, and spreading goat cheese thickly across it. _

"_Precious Tex?" Tex can't keep the bitterness out of her voice. _

_Church is beet red, and takes a bite of the bread, chewing with his mouth full. " 'S nuffin."_

_She makes a noise of disgust. "Chewing with your mouth full, Lenny? How classy."_

_He swallows. "Seriously. Don't call me Lenny. And you can't spell class without ass." He glares at her and mutters under his breath, "I'm gonna kill that little brat, I swear."_

_She crosses her arms over her chest. "Remind me why you thought this was a good idea?"_

_The look he gives her is part anxiety, and something unreadable. Tex turns around and begins to walk out. Whatever he's thinking, she doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't belong to anyone, and especially not him. The idea that he has been telling his family about her digs a hole in her heart, and as much as she doesn't want to admit it, a tiny bit of longing. _

"_Tex, wait—" He catches up to her as she reaches the hallway, placing his hand on her elbow. She shakes it off. _

"_What, Church?" She snaps, facing him. "What the hell do you want?"_

_He doesn't say anything. Instead he stands on the tips of his toes, looks her straight in the eyes, and presses his lips to hers. _

_She doesn't think she would like it. And really, she thinks she should push him away and get the hell out, but she doesn't. Somehow, she is kissing him back, and when they come back up for air her lips tingle, the taste of that warm bread and the melted goat cheese still lingering. _

_

* * *

_

The anthem of Panem booming across the arena snapped Tex out of her memory, and she looked up at the night sky. The first deaths, about to be projected into the sky for all to see.

_Of course. Because that's just perfect timing_.

The seal of Panem flashed briefly, and then the faces appeared, a clear, oversize holograph.

Cali and CT, the District 5 tributes. Omega, the one from 6. The girl from 7. The boy from 8. The boy from 9—Tex recognized his face; he was one of hers. The girl from 10 was the final face to be seen, before they slowly faded away, replaced by the seal, and then nothing at all.

She heard Tenn exploding into a rage, yelling something about how that stupid bitch from 11 should be dead now, she was his kill, damn it! But Tex was barely paying attention to him, staring down into the last item in the parachute in shock.

_Impossible_.

She had not told her mentor of Church; it was none of his damn business. She figured Church would have donated some money, maybe started up a collection for her. But this?

It took her willpower to keep the tears at bay, and she hated herself for wanting to cry, and for the stirring in her heart.

For at the bottom of the parachute there was a single, yellow rose.


	12. Bleed by Numbers

**A/N: Big, big thanks to Martienne not only for beta-ing this chapter, but for helping me come up with a backstory for both Wash and Epsilon's relationship, as Wash and Epsilon relating to each other is a big part of RvB canon but I was uncertain of how to transfer that here. I would not ever recommend listening to the song for this chapter, as it comes from a truly awful musical. I worked a temp job at the theater it was playing, and not only was it stuck in my head, but the title was good. The actual song...not so much. **

* * *

"Agent Washington? Agent Washington?"

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Were you thinking about Epsilon again, Agent Washington?"

"No."

"What happened with Epsilon is not your fault, Agent Washington."

-Wash and the Counselor; Recovery One: Part IV

* * *

_Slammed against a brick wall of an abandoned alley. Punched in the stomach, kneed in the groin, blood leaking from the boy's nose. _

"_Pussy!"_

"_Dickwad!"_

"_Cockbite!"_

"_Faggot!"_

_The gang was small, four or five teenagers against one, whose ineffective punches were the cause of more mockery amongst the group. Only one of the gang hung back a little, his grey and yellow jacket hanging loosely from his shoulders as he took a drag on his cigarette, coughing. _

"_Wash, what the hell are you doing?"_

"_Nothing," he replied._

"_Then get over here!" The leader, a tall blonde boy, narrowed his eyes at Washington. "Unless you want to be next."_

_Wash threw the cigarette to the ground, crushing it into the dirty cobblestones. He felt outside of his own body as he picked the boy up off the ground by the collar of his cobalt shirt. _

_One, two, three punches. A fourth, and the boy was coughing up blood. "Go fuck yourself." The boy spat in the gang's direction. _

"_Big talk from such a runt," the leader said, getting right in the boy's face. "Why not go back running to your mommy, Epsilon? Like you do every other time your big, bad, classmates hurt your precious feelings?"_

_The leader slammed Epsilon against the wall again, and Wash winced as he heard the sound of bone cracking. Epsilon's ice blue eyes fluttered closed, and he slumped over, sliding down the wall to the street, a trail of blood in his wake. _

"_Come on, guys, let's get outta here." The leader grinned, and pulled out a cigarette from behind his ear. "Think this fag's learned his lesson…for now."_

_The boys disappeared down the alley and around the corner, but Wash didn't follow behind them. Instead, with hesitant, quiet steps he walked towards Epsilon, who was still and unmoving. All of the color had drained from his face, the blue-red color of his veins showing prominently under that porcelain-white skin. Wash gulped; the coppery scent of blood was overwhelming. He had never felt more nauseated in his life, but he forced himself to press on, to lean down and press his ear against Epsilon's chest, hoping for a heartbeat. _

_Instead, there was nothing, and Wash did the only thing a scared, distraught sixteen year old could do: run. _

_

* * *

_"I would suggest keeping your screams to yourself, if you don't want to be found."

Wash shot up from his makeshift bed by the campfire, and groped in the darkness next to his sleeping bag for his knife. But he could only feel grass between his fingers, and he swore under his breath.

"You must really think I'm stupid, if you assumed I wouldn't disarm you."

The voice was unfamiliar to him; it was neither Tex nor Massa. Jersey and Rhode had settled themselves elsewhere for the night, once Tenn had made it clear who was the leader of their little camp. Rhode didn't take kindly to that, and to be honest, Wash was glad that the pair was gone. Both of them were beginning to get on his nerves.

The campfire was dying out now, and the figure was only illuminated by the dying embers of it, casting a red glow on her skin, making her seem far more hellish than she really was. She was tall, and judging by the flickering firelight, blonde. Her curls hung messily down her shoulders, and she tossed his knife from hand to hand.

"Nice weapon you've got here," she said. "Should take better care of it."

"I don't need a weapon to kill you," Wash snapped back, rising to his feet.

"I believe it when I see it. Who's Epsilon, by the way?" She grinned wickedly. "Your boyfriend back home? Sure sounded like it, based on the way you were moaning in your sleep."

"Shut up," Wash snarled, walking around the campfire until he was face to face with her.

The girl tapped the blade of the knife to her chin, like she was pondering his request. "I could," she said slowly. "But that wouldn't be half as much fun."

Wash reached for her, grabbing her by her jacket. In an instant, his knife was at his throat, and the girl leaned in, her lips very lightly brushing against his.

"I wouldn't try that, if I were you," she whispered, her lips ice cold against his chapped ones.

Wash curled his fingers into fists, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Even though her lips were cold the rest of her body was warm, far too warm as she pressed up against him. And if it weren't for the knife at his throat, he may have thought differently of her.

The girl laughed softly. "Now, you have a choice."

Wash raised an eyebrow, "Oh, do I now? I was under the impression you were leaving me with none."

"Wash, Wash, Wash…" She pushed the tip of the blade into the delicate skin of his neck, just enough to cause a little bleeding, but not enough to hit any vital spots. "Now what kind of person would I be if I didn't give you options?"

He could feel small trickles of blood running down his neck, and tried his best not to wince.

"As I was saying, you have two choices tonight, Washington. I am going to let you go. And you can chase me in hopes of killing me, but…" She dug the knife just a touch deeper this time, and he gasped. "I wouldn't recommend that, if I were you. It's far too easy to let my knife slip just a little…" She ran the smooth blade against his throat again. "Or, there's always option number two."

"Yes?" Wash croaked, hating everything in that moment. Her, his vulnerability, the nightmares that had given him away, Epsilon, and himself most of all, for being too weak to say no, and too weak to fight off his own guilt.

"You can join me. You're not half bad, after all. I saw you earlier, fighting with CT. You do have panache, if nothing else."

Slowly, Wash nodded. She had him by the short hairs, whoever she was. And once he got his knife back…he could always dispose of her.

"Smart move." She removed the knife from his throat, but when he reached for it, she laughed and swatted his hand away. "Nice try. I would have thought you wouldn't underestimate me anymore, Washington. Of course," she gestured towards the sleeping forms of Tex, Tenn, and Massa, "I like my men armed…"

Wash leaned over, and plucked the spear out of Tenn's grip, loosened by sleep. The teenager snored, and rolled over, muttering something about fish sticks.

She eyed his choice, and nodded in approval. "I knew you had good taste." She began to walk towards the forest ahead of them. "Come on, we're moving out."

"Wait."

The girl turned around, hands on her hips. "Yes?" She sighed in annoyance.

"Just who are you?"

She advanced on him, once again pressing her body against his. She gave him a small, seductive smile. "Call me South," she said, pressing her lips to his again for the briefest of seconds, and then darting away as if nothing had happened.

Wash ran his shaking fingers through his buzz cut, watching her retreating form. His lips still tingled where she had kissed him, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a bit attracted to the deadly, condescending, maddening girl in front of him. He exhaled heavily, and followed her lead.

"Well, fuck me."


	13. How A Fish Destroyed My Childhood

**A/N: Long chapter is long, I know. Huge, huge thanks to Martienne for beta-ing this. And to Rane who was the first to hear this chapter, read out loud, so many weeks ago. Chapter title (and fish tacos reference) comes from the blog Hyperbole and a Half-you should totally go read it. It's brilliant. Also, as a note about Maine's weapon: it is an altered version of a weapon in the Halo games called a Brute Shot. In Red vs Blue, the Brute Shot is Maine's signature weapon. However, the original had a curved blade on it that I eliminated for this version. His reaction to said Brute Shot is a reference to MissZarah's fanfic, The Prodigal Son, the most well known Maine fanfic ever. All credit goes to her. :)**

* * *

_"Because you secretly love her."_

_"Oh, don't start that again."_

_-Gary and Church; Blood Gulch Chronicles Episode 50 _

**

* * *

**

"Maine!"

Someone was shaking him, and Maine groaned, swiping at them with his hand. Careless gestures like that would bite him back when he used his bad arm, and Maine prayed that Simmons would be able to get him sponsors soon—surely people in the Capitol had access to good pain medication.

The person had moved on from shaking him to nudging him with the top of their boot, and Maine snapped his eyes open, face to face with York.

_Of course. _

Only York would take time out of his morning to wake Maine in the most annoying way possible.

"Don'tcha believe in, ya know, just letting a guy get a few hours of rest?" Maine sat up and wiped at his eyes.

"I'm sorry; do you want to be ambushed by Careers? Because if you do, then by all means, go right ahead and go back to whatever depraved dreams you were having."

"I don't have—wait, what does depraved mean?"

York shook his head, and hauled Maine's pack onto his shoulders. "I'm not even going to answer that. We're splitting up for the day. This is the Careers' hunting time; I could hear them a few minutes ago." York hesitated for a moment, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "They…um…they got the girl from 8."

Maine nodded. It was not surprising. That was how the Careers functioned—they moved in packs, killed in packs, and once all of the tributes from 'lesser' Districts were eliminated they would battle amongst themselves. On occasion there would be a straggler or two from other Districts left, but the majority of victors over the seventy-seven years of Hunger Games were Career tributes. Still, there was little he could say about the girl from 8, so he merely sighed, and looked up at that unnaturally blue sky for a few, brief moments.

The sun was shining brightly as ever, and there was a slight breeze in the air—beautiful weather. Beautiful enough to make Maine a little suspicious. "Fine. But what do you think you're doing with _my_ pack?" Maine grabbed York's shoulders.

"Sharing is caring, Maine," York replied in a sing-song tone.

"My ass it is," Maine snapped back. "Hand it over."

"What, your ass?" York smirked.

"Suck my coc—" Maine began, but was cut off by the insistent sound of someone clearing their throat.

"Ahem." Carolina stood just outside the alcove, her mockingjay in one hand, and Maine's knife in the other. "Arguing won't get us anywhere, York," she said. She then turned her attention to Maine, "Nor will foul language."

"Sorry," both boys muttered at the same time.

"Apology accepted. Maine, York has your pack for a reason." She looked pointedly at York, who nodded eagerly, reaching into the backpack.

"Went down to the Career camp before dawn," he explained. "They're just about as lazy as you are so—"

"York…" Carolina cut in, and he flushed.

"Right, sorry. Anyway, they're arrogant enough to think that no one would dare trespass their territory, and for the most part, they were right. I haven't seen anyone else even get near them. But their leader, Tenn, sounds like a bear when he sleeps. It was far too easy to sneak in and get…" York pulled out a weapon from Maine's pack, and tossed it to Maine, "this."

Maine turned the weapon over in his hand. It appeared to be some sort of grenade launcher and he whistled, low and long. "Well, I'll be damned. Ain't this a beauty? You may have done something useful, for once."

"You're welcome, asshole," York snapped, and Carolina cleared her throat again, tugging on the bottom of York's jacket. "Sorry, Cara," he murmured, and she nodded. "It has exactly six grenades in it. Use them sparingly—I'm sure even one would blow someone sky high. I figure out of the three of us, you'd do the best with it. Carolina can handle your knife while she goes out gathering, and I have a little something of my own, to keep me occupied."

Maine pressed his lips into a tight line. "York, a moment?"

"Huh?"

"_Alone_," Maine stressed, his focus on Carolina, and how tiny and vulnerable she looked, with only York's knife, rubbing one of the mockingjay's wings absentmindedly. He didn't like the idea of her going into those vast woods alone. Not one bit.

"Stop babying me," she said to Maine. "We're a group now, aren't we? Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of me, too. I can defend myself just fine."

"Fine." He sighed. She had a point; she couldn't be babied forever. Nor could he always be there to protect her. Still, even as he let the point drop, he got the haunting sense that she would slip away far too quickly.

_Live in the moment_, he reminded himself. Day by day. She was strong enough to make it through today; figure out the rest tonight. There was no such thing as long term in the arena. "Where are we meeting back up, then?"

York pointed to cliffs in the distance. "I believe, over there, there is a waterfall. Cara heard it yesterday, when she was at the Cornucopia. That's your job—go see if you can find it, get some freshwater, some fish, maybe. Cara says she'll be able to find some edible plants in the forest. Obviously, we'd never be able to find each other again in the dark, so…" York stepped to the tip of their ledge that overlooked the immense canyon below them."See that tree over there?"

Both nodded. The tree was scraggly, and unlike the others, had a mutated, twisted trunk. The branches were barely covered in any leaves at all.

"Be back there at sunset. And then we'll find somewhere new to camp for the night. Got it?"

Carolina nodded, and Maine mocked saluted him. He didn't like the idea of Cara by herself, but she was right—she could defend herself; she had to. He watched as she ducked down into the alcove and disappeared from sight. He was about to do the same when he felt York's hand grab his good arm.

"Maine."

"What?"

"I didn't get you that weapon because of your warm and sparkling personality, you know."

"And here I thought you enjoyed the pleasure of my company." Maine winked at him, and York sighed.

"Maine, I'm serious. Look, I don't mean right away but…you owe me."

"Fine." Maine spit into his palm, and held it out to York. "Shake on it."

"Now that's just gross."

"Deal's a deal, isn't it?"

"Yeah," York grumbled, and he shook, shuddering as he disappeared into the mouth of the cave.

"You forgot to spit!" Maine called after him, and somewhere from the depths of the alcove he swore he could hear a very faint, "Screw you, too."

* * *

Climbing the cliffs was far easier than it had been yesterday, and a few rocks in Maine adjusted himself to working with his left arm instead of his right. He secured the launcher to his back with a length of rope he had found a few ledges down. A sign they had not been the only tributes to consider this outcropping a safe haven, at least for a little while.

The rope was the only remnant of whoever had stayed here the night before, and with a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach Maine wondered if it had been the District 8 girl. Lingering on it would do him no good, though, so when he jumped the last few feet to the ground he dusted off his hands and forced himself to forget about it. He took a few steps and then stopped, listening for the sound of water. It was definitely there, faint but enough for him to make out the pounding of it against rocks. He didn't consider himself the most directionally oriented person, and he moved carefully, following the noise but stopping every few steps to make sure he was on the right track. It seemed that as the minutes ticked by the hotter it got, the slight haze of the morning disappearing.

The trek was longer than he expected, and he didn't risk running—he could easily lose his way by being unable to hear the water—so he had to make do with moving at a regular pace. Not only was it incredibly draining, but it was frustrating, too.

_If this is how normal people have to function every day, count me out. _

Maine reached for one of the flasks York had brought back from the Careers' camp (he had managed to find three, discarded like they were garbage) and tipped it back, desperate for the last few drops of water. It was barely anything at all, but with the merciless sun determined to make his walk even more miserable than ever, Maine's throat had begun to grow hoarse. The sound of the waterfall was still so faint; unbearably far away, and Maine adjusted the launcher on his back. He took a deep breath, and prepared himself to run.

_I never pretended I was patient…_

As soon as he took off, he knew it had been the right decision. If nothing else, for the feeling of it, even if it continued to jolt his arm in small, sharp bursts. But how easy it was to slip into being his old self, someone he hadn't seen since the night of the interview. Normally if he ran he could close his eyes, allowing his body to instinctually dart past obstacles, the rest of his senses heightened like a predatory animal. Today, however, he did not allow himself to risk that—if he couldn't hear the waterfall he sure as hell had to make sure he could see it. And at this speed, it didn't take long for it to come into his line of vision. Maine forced himself to slow down, and to take in the immensity of it.

He had never seen such a tall cliff before, and it gave off an air of rugged majesty that left Maine staring at it for a few minutes, completely in awe. The waterfall itself must have been a good 250 feet straight down, a white crest that emptied into a lake of sorts. There was a minimal shoreline of sand and for a brief moment Maine worried it may have been saltwater; it would be just like the Gamemakers to tempt the tributes in such a cruel, senseless way.

The coast was littered with rocks, and Maine stashed his launcher (which he had fondly nicknamed 'Brute Shot') behind one of them, making sure it was within eyesight to himself, but not to any passers-by. He was surprised that for all intents and purposes, the beach appeared to be empty. He would not put it past a few to hide out amongst the rocks, but there didn't even seem to be evidence that anyone had come across this spot. Maine took one last, lingering look at his hiding place and made his way to the water's edge, squatting and cupping a handful of the crystalline, cool stuff. He sniffed; it didn't smell salty, or unnatural in any way, shape or form.

He brought his hands up to his lips and drank. The water was sweet, clear, and ice cold—enough to make his hands numb, but that didn't stop him. In fact, the lake looked so inviting, and Maine felt so disgusting and grimy that he peeled off all of his clothes one by one, rinsing them off and laying them on the rocks to dry.

He didn't care that he was naked on live television at the moment—there had to be something more interesting going on with the other tributes that the cameras were fixated on. And if not…well, he may not be Finnick Odair, but surely someone was bound to enjoy the show.

He soaked in the water for a while, not daring to tread out much further than hip level—he had never learned how to swim, and he got the distinct feeling that just winging it wouldn't do him any favors. He sighed a little; for the first time since the Games began he had a moment of near peace. He wouldn't say contentment—there was no way to be content with a still stinging arm wound—but it was nice to be able to organize his thoughts. That is, until a school of silver fish darted between his ankles, and he snapped out of the moment.

_Fish. Right._

One of his jobs today, along with getting fresh water. Maine reluctantly made his way back to the shore—the rest of his clothes weren't dry but his undershorts were—and grabbed the flasks, filling them up.

Now, of course, he had to figure out some way to snare the fish. Maine didn't know anything about fishing or bait, but without a knife, spear, net, or even a hook, he figured he only had two choices. One, use his cap as a temporary (pathetic) net. Or just grab the creatures with his bare hands, and play it by ear from there. His stomach sank a little when he realized that once he had managed to capture the stupid things he had nothing to hold them in, except the cap, or his shirt.

He didn't bother wondering why he even considered attempting—he could imagine the look on Carolina's face when he managed to bring back real, fresh food instead of dried scraps.

_Well, it's not like I needed the hat anyway…_

The fish were either blind, or incredibly stupid, or both. Within a few minutes Maine had managed to capture three, and he retreated to the shore. He had no idea how to prepare fish—any kind of meat was a rarity back home—but he had some in the Capitol, and it sure as hell didn't still have the head attached when it had been deposited on his plate.

The eyes were beginning to creep Maine out anyway; even though the fish had stopped wiggling by now, it still looked like the creature was watching him, taunting him.

_**You expect to cut off my head? Good luck with that, buddy**_.

"Shut up, fish," he mumbled, reaching for a sharp edged rock nearby. The outskirts of the beach was littered with them, and with no knife, it was the best alternative. He traced the edge with the tip of one finger; it seemed sharp enough. Fish were floppy; it wasn't like they had bone he had to cut through, right?

_**Wrong. **_

"Stupid fish." Maine brought the rock down on the fish's head, just below where he imagined the neck would be.

Unfortunately, he was not rewarded by a freshly decapitated fish. Instead he was assaulted by a stream of blood that gave off the ever so lovely scent of dead animal, and whatever said dead animal had ingested before Maine had snared it. Maine shuddered, and proceeded to strike the fish repeatedly with the rock, calling the creature every colorful curse he had ever come across in his time working in the orchards.

He was so absorbed in trying to behead the fish and avoid smearing more blood on himself (he was not succeeding at either) that he didn't hear the laughter until she was beside him, the rock plucked out of his hands and the fish decapitated in a single, smooth stroke.

It was her. Of course.

"Massa."

* * *

"I…um…I…I'm…"

_Keep it together. It's not that hard, really. You have no problem talking to girls back home. It's not like she's any different than an ordinary—oh, don't kid yourself._

She raised an eyebrow, and sat down on the beach next to him. "Bashing a fish's head in doesn't really do it any favors."

"I know," he snapped back.

He wanted to move closer to her; even sitting next to her at this distance felt intoxicating a little, a hum of electricity in his veins that he hoped was mutual. However, being covered in fish entrails did not make him particularly endearing at the moment.

Massa pulled a knife from the belt loop on her pants, and began to gut the fish like an expert, tossing the bones to one side. "You're probably not going to get much of this one, unless you chop it up."

"Could make fish…um…I dunno…fish tacos?"

"A fish taco." She said flatly. "And get any sort of flat bread from the bread fairy?"

He blushed bright red, and hated himself for it. "Coulda used a leaf or somethin'. I know my plants just as well as you know your fish."

"I trust you," she said simply, and he felt a warm glow in his chest that spread down his legs to his feet, which began to tingle at the arches. "But…" she bit her lower lip and moved onto the next fish. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way or anything but you kind of…stink."

"Thanks, I'm sure you smell lovely too, after not bathing for two days."

_What the hell is wrong with you? You should try to flirt with her, not treat her like York! You had a better conversation with the fish. _

She frowned. "You know, I didn't…have to come over here or anything. Though I hope you're aware that from our camp we can see the waterfall. And with binoculars it's not exactly rocket science to spot someone."

"So you were spying on me?"

Now it was her turn to bright red from head to toe, and she put down the knife, her fingers shaking. She began to fiddle with the bottom of her shirt. "No! I mean…I…no! It wasn't like that at all. I just…I dunno. We hadn't talked…since the parade…and I..."

Maine felt a flare of anger. What was her deal? Did she truly want to talk to him, or was this another Career strategy? He eyed the knife, and grabbed it, wiping it clean with his ruined cap. "Why did you even talk to me then? Besides, shouldn't you be getting back to your _partner_?"

"Do you really think I enjoy being close to Tenn? He's a pig." Massa wrinkled her nose.

"I dunno what to think."

"Well, he is. But…it's what I'm supposed to do. That's how it works."

"It…" he could barely choke out the words. "It…doesn't have to."

"It's what's expected of me," she said, pressing her lips in a tight line.

"And ya always do what's 'spected of ya?"

"Well…yes. I…don't know any other way. Except for the parade, when I…talked to you."

"So why'd ya do it?"

"I…noticed you, when you were talking to your partner. She was so sweet looking, and you were making her laugh. There's…something about you that draws people to you."

_Damn straight_.

He feigned curiosity, and inched a little closer to her, lowering his voice. Adrenaline was pounding in his veins, and it took all of his composure to keep his voice from wavering. "Is there now?"

"Yes," she mumbled, her hand drifting over to his, her fingers barely brushing across his own, hesitant. "I should probably…well…you should…"

Maine looked down at his bare chest, wishing he could channel the person of an hour ago, who had absolutely no problem being naked on camera. Because right now, in his undershorts, he was starting to feel pretty exposed. "I should clean up, yeah," he said.

"You have some in your hair, too," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Okay." He pushed himself off the sand, and went back into the water. The bottom of the lake had similar sand to the beach and he grabbed a handful of it, scrubbing the mess off his body. He dunked his head underwater, and feeling more confident further away from her, tossed his head in several ridiculous ways—a dead on imitation of her mentor, Finnick. "Better?" He called over to her.

She took off her jacket and rolled up her pants to her knees, walking to the edge of the water and dipping her ankles in it. "The sad thing is, that was a spot on impression of him."

He laughed, though the nervousness was beginning to make a comeback. "Well, I like to think I'm very talented."

With a sigh, Massa looked beyond him, to where the water deepened and began to form small wavelets. "I've missed swimming," she said. "Haven't been able to since I left home."

He bit his lower lip, the words at the tip of his tongue. Normally he would never hesitate in saying them, and he felt a flash of annoyance. What was it about this girl that caused him to second guess every single one of his moves? He took a deep breath and managed to squeak out the words, far from the smooth tone he had hoped for. "Could always join me, ya know."

She brightened. "You know how to swim?"

"Uh…well…um…yeah! Of course! I totally know how to swim. I mean, who doesn't know how to swim, right? That's like not learning how to walk; everyone in District 11 knows how to swim. Why wouldn't they?" Maine babbled, putting one hand to his forehead. "Why is it so hot in here?"

_Smooth. Real smooth. Nice going, there. _

"You're standing waist deep in cold water, Maine." She retreated back to the shore, her fingers absentmindedly braiding her hair.

"Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess I am, aren't I?" He gave his hair one final rinse and followed her, stretching out his legs in the sun, and wiggling his toes in the sand.

Massa glanced at him, and he noticed her brown eyes had small flecks of green in them, as well as the gold. She shivered a little as a small breeze picked up, and he reached for jacket at the same time she did, their hands touching in one of those romantic clichés Maine hated so much. He wanted to withdraw but at the same time he couldn't; even the mildest of touches next to her made his heart skip a beat and his head buzz. He had no idea what made him do it, in the end. What part of his body finally decided to cooperate with his mind. He grabbed the jacket, and gently draped it over her shoulders.

"Thanks." She smiled at him and his thoughts shorted out. She continued talking, however, and he forced himself to focus. "Not used to water being this cold, really. Back home, it's always warm. Like bathwater, except saltier, of course."

" 'M used to cold baths. Hot, running water isn't exactly common for the majority of us."

Her jaw dropped a little, and he noticed she had a small, gold filling in one of her teeth. "You don't have indoor plumbing?"

"I didn't say that." He grabbed a broken branch off the beach and began dragging it in the sand in random patterns. "We have running water indoors all right, just not hot. Have to boil it otherwise."

"I couldn't imagine living like that." She plucked the stick from his hands and wrote her name in neat, swirling cursive.

"It's not like we chose it!" Maine snapped.

"Sorry," she mumbled, working on a small heart in the sand. "I guess I never really…"

"…You don't really think about it." Maine finished the sentence for her. He was reminded of why everyone back home had a special loathing for Career tributes when watching the Games.

"Yes." She added another heart. "Though it's not like they teach us anything about the other Districts in school," she added defensively.

Maine looked down at his toes, embarrassed at the venom in his previous words. They never taught anything about the other Districts at his school, either, so how could he expect her to understand, or even to know? "So…what's it like there? In District 4, I mean."

_Of course she knows what you mean, you idiot_.

Massa let out a small, happy sigh. "Lovely. I mean…it's not like I know anything different. But even if I did, I probably wouldn't live anywhere else. We live right on the shore, my mom and dad and I. So every morning I wake up right next to the sea."

"Mm-hmm." Maine took the stick back and resumed the random swirls.

"I swim most days," she continued. "Though I don't when it storms. I like it best when it storms."

At this, Maine raised his head. "What? Why?"

In District 11, a storm was a miniature disaster. Crops ruined, harvest usually cut in half. Someone always paid the price for it, an ugly one, even though no one could control the weather. The Peacekeepers didn't care about that particular fact; they just spilled blood without thinking twice.

"Because I like to watch it, from my bedroom window. The clouds, the rain, and of course, listening to the sea pounding against the rocks. It's funny, watching the sea change. From that green calm to the raging grey. It's moody and fickle, just like people."

"I wouldn't consider that a good thing." Maine pushed the stick forcefully into the sand—too forcefully, for it snapped in half.

"Why not? People are interesting, for the most part. Granted…" She lowered her head a little, fiddling with the ends of her hair. "I like some more than others."

"Yeah?" Maine breathed, moving a little so that they sat hip to hip.

The rush of it left him dizzy, and he was sure he probably had some dopey, ridiculous grin on his face. It felt so _right_, sitting so close to her, and that was enough to bring back some of his boldness. She didn't object when he wrapped his arm around her waist; in fact she leaned in a little, resting her head against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. And in a way, despite the previous rush of anxiety, the tension still crackling between them, it was.

"Yes," she whispered, tilting her chin upward so that she could look him directly in the eye.

Maine's hands began to shake a little. It was easy, all too easy. The way she was looking at him, the way her lips were parted just a bit, like she was practically asking him to do it.

_Now, or never, Maine. If you mess this up, there'll probably never be another chance_.

He closed his eyes, leaned in, and pressed his lips to hers.

* * *

Maine considered himself a good kisser.

At the very least, none of the girls in 11 had any complaints. And there had been quite a few, though it hadn't gone much further than that. He never had a girlfriend; not really. Just kisses here and there, when they were certain they wouldn't get caught.

Thus far, it seemed as though Massa had no complaints, either. In fact, when he began to pull away and break the kiss she pulled him back a little, as if to say, 'I'm not done with you yet'. Which, he had to admit, was one of the hottest things he had ever experienced. That is, until her tongue slipped into his mouth.

_Okay, now that is officially the hottest thing ever_.

Unfortunately, he did have to break the kiss eventually, panting a little for breath. His entire body felt weak, and he didn't have much confidence in his ability to stand up and walk, should he attempt to do so.

"That was…that was…"

_Come on, Maine. Use your words. Not that hard. _

Massa, however, had absolutely no interest in many words. "Maine?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop babbling, and kiss me again."

And so he did. At least, until the cannon went off, and the screaming began.


	14. A Thousand Angels

**A/N: So, just a few notes here. I try and interpret RvB canon in ew ways for this fic, so this is my take on Carolina, and what happened to her. Though we know very little about what actually happened to her. Oh, by the way, I have written a bonus Maine oneshot, Reap What We Do. Some Maine backstory for y'all. Oh, and for the curious, my av now is what Maine looks like in RvB Carolina is singing is Latin.  
**

**There are two songs for this chapter. Moonlight and Madness by Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and A Thousand Angels by Rachel MacWhirter. (I always mess up spelling her last name but the lyrics are absolutely perfect for this chapter.  
**

* * *

_"Other experiments like the Dakotas were common towards the end. For instance, Agent Carolina was implanted with two A.I.s at one time."_

_"Two of them? That would drive me nuts."_

_"Indeed."_

_Delta: Reconstruction, Chapter 8_

* * *

The trees here were worlds different from the ones Carolina was used to climbing—these were rough and covered in pine needles—but it felt good to stretch her legs the way she was used to. Her head still pounded, but it was easier to ignore as she hopped from branch to branch, the familiar movement bringing a smile to her face.

The forest was dense and thick, the air slightly sweet as the sun began to beat down upon the arena. Beads of sweat gathered at her temples, and she paused for a moment on a branch to tuck her hair up under her cap. Honestly, there wasn't much left of it to do so; her mother had cut it to just below her ears right before the reaping. At first she had hated it that way, but now she was ashamed of the small fuss she had kicked up back home. She hung her head and looked down to the forest floor, blinking back the tears. There were so many things she hadn't said, so many things she wished she could go back and change.

And now she never would.

Carolina knew she wouldn't come home. It was something that had tugged at her ever since the reaping. Sure, she could move through the trees easily, but that was nothing new for younger tributes from District 11. She had no physical strength like the Careers; the best she could hope for was to stay out of sight. Of course, there was always the slim hope that would work—it worked for Annie Cresta, seven years ago. But Carolina would rather not go mad if she could help it.

_But maybe we're all mad. How could anyone manage to stay sane here?_

She leaned up against the trunk of the tree, taking a deep breath. She knew she was supposed to go gather, but looking up at the sky, she knew she had a few hours left to do so. She took the moment to close her eyes, tilting her face up towards the sky.

That was when she heard it. A hum, a little chirp, one she knew so well. Her eyes snapped open again, she found herself with a companion, a flesh and blood version of her beloved token. The mockingjay took her in with its beady black eyes, tilting its head a little as she held out her finger to it.

"Hello there, old friend," she said softly, and the mockingjay jumped onto her hand, its short little talons biting into the skin on the palm of her hand. It wasn't painful, more of an odd feeling, but one she had missed terribly. Mockingjays were all over the orchards back home, and though there certainly wasn't much time for frivolity in District 11, the mockingjays near her group of trees had quickly become her friends.

So, without thinking, she began to sing. It was a simple song, really, made up of only three words—words in a language Carolina never understood. But her mother had sung it when she was a child, when she did the same rough job Carolina did. She had gotten too old and too tall to scramble amongst the highest branches now, but when she had been twelve; _her_ mother had taught her the song that she had sung to the mockingjays, just as Carolina was now.

"Dona Nobis Pacem," Carolina sang out to the bird, who looked up at her for a few moments before mimicking the tune.

It became a round, a perfect harmony, as the bird did what it was born to do, matching Carolina's pitch perfectly, even filling in the weaknesses in her voice. Soon her song attracted other mockingjays, and they picked up the tune in an instant, filling the forest with their sound. Carolina belted out the final notes of the song, completely forgetting where she was. In her mind she was back home, working another long day, singing to keep herself productive. Music made even the worst chores bearable, and on some days it was the only thing that kept her going. But when the last notes faded from existence, she was reminded where she was. The arena. The Hunger Games.

And when the spear pierced the side of the tree trunk, just barely missing her torso, she knew she had made the biggest mistake of her short life.

* * *

"Well, ain't that a pretty little song."

Another spear lodged itself into the tree; it would had stabbed her straight in the palm had she not reacted at the last moment. The mockingjays were gone now, and when Carolina looked down she met the hateful, determined gaze of the boy from District 4. Carolina scrambled to her feet and, taking a deep breath, leaped to the next tree. For a split second her hands slipped on the branch, but she was able to regain her grip. She sighed with relief, and prepared herself to move to the next. She knew she couldn't outrun him forever, but maybe he'd run out of weapons or energy before she did.

"You really should have been my kill," he continued, half a dozen small spears in his hand. "If the girl from District 12 hadn't gotten there first. But then—" A spear went flying in her direction and she dodged it, just barely. "But then you just wouldn't stay dead."

Carolina could barely process what he was telling her. The girl from District 12 had tried to kill her? It didn't seem possible. York had saved her; the people from District 12 had never been vicious the way the person who had hit her must have been. It was a lie. It had to be a lie. But she had seen a flash of blonde hair right before she had been knocked out…

"And if _Massachusetts_ hadn't been so busy distracting me by her idiotic insistence that your partner wasn't her boyfriend—"

Carolina had been teetering on the edge of a branch, just about to jump, but the impact of his words made her sway a little, about to lose her balance. Maine and Massa? She knew they had talked before the parade, and she had seen the way he looked at her, but there was no way…was there?

_He's just trying to psych you out. Just trying to get to you by telling lies. Don't listen to him, Cara. It's all false. Just jump_. _Do what you were born to do_.

"Even if she wasn't such a terrible liar, I might have believed her. That is, until she picked the most obvious spot in the world to kiss him." He snorted in disgust, and readied another spear.

Carolina's head was spinning, her legs beginning to shake. She knew she had to move, now, but she felt frozen in place. The adrenaline running through her veins and pounding with each beat of her heart was supposed to help her survive, help her move on and outrun the threat, left her jittery and anxious. Her lungs constricted and she found herself panting, as if she couldn't breathe. She doubled over, and she heard the boy's cruel laughter.

"Poor little Carolina," he taunted. "So small. So weak."

_Don't listen, don't listen, don't listen, don't listen…_

She willed herself to move, and using all of her strength, jumped to the next tree. Her hands slipped again, and she gripped the branch, tried to force herself to hold on, to pull herself up to safety.

"You thought you were in love with him, didn't you?"

That was when her hands, sweating and bleeding, lost their hold on the tree, and she fell.

* * *

It was a strange sensation, falling.

Eighty feet up, she knew she was going to die when she hit the ground. She wondered if it would hurt terribly, or if her life would just be snuffed out in an instant. She wondered if it would have been better to have died at the hand of the boy's spear. But for now she almost enjoyed the weightlessness of it, the wind rustling through her air, how everything else in the world receded, and it was just sky and light and gravity all in a rush.

Crack!

She had stopped, but instead of finding hard packed earth beneath her, there was a tree branch. She looked down; she couldn't have been more than 25 feet above ground now. Her entire body throbbed, especially the right side of her torso, and she bit her lower lip to keep herself from screaming with pain. She didn't even want to think about moving, and so when she felt the branch beneath her give in and break away, she let herself fall once again.

This time she was brought back to Earth with a thump, landing directly on her behind. She could feel as well as hear the bone crack beneath her, and she groaned, her head spinning. Her lower ribs were being licked with flaming hot pain, and when the District 4 boy straddled her she began to sob, unable to hold back the excruciating wavelets of agony that ran rampant throughout her body. His spear was positioned right above her heart, and the last, conscious part of her told her to fight back. But with what?

_The knife_.

Though moving her arm brought a new level of despair to her broken anatomy, she reached for the knife tucked into her belt. Yes, it was still there; secure despite her nosedive, and she gripped the hilt.

It happened too quickly. The boy's spear was racing towards her, and she threw up her left arm for protection, her right still gripping the knife. The spear stabbing through the skin caused her to let out a sound that seemed otherworldly—beyond animal, beyond anything she had ever heard before. The movements with her right hand were erratic and wild—she swiped, she stabbed, she did anything until she made contact with his skin.

And contact she did—while at first impact she had squeezed her eyes shut, she opened them again to see the blade lodged in his neck, as he had turned. Her hand shook as she pulled it out, and blood began to spurt wildly, covering her jacket, her pants, his shirt, and her face. Warm and smelling like copper and salt, she gagged as it sprayed her. The color began to drain from his face as he regarded her the way a feral dog would, his breath in snarls, his words barely intelligible.

"You…little…whore…can't…get…away….bitch…"

He tried to pick up another spear but his hands were trembling so badly, so slick with blood that it fell from his grip. His skin was turning ashen now; she had no idea what she had hit with that single stab, but it must have been something important, at the rate he was losing blood. Blind luck, nothing more.

She wasn't sure what possessed her to do it. What force in her mind told her to keep stabbing, but she could feel her mind cleaving in two; the old Carolina floating in the background while a vicious new voice, one she had never made contact with before, pressed her forward. The old Carolina watched her new self stab the boy over and over again, stab him wherever she could. In the chest, the neck, the face—so many times in his face that his features began to recede and all that was left was blood. It was something beyond any nightmare she had before, something beyond any Hunger Games she had seen on television. This was all too real, yet at the same time she couldn't believe it was happening. Couldn't believe that she was the one doing this, inflicting such horror. The boy had slumped over completely, his hands twitching as he tried to reach for a weapon, but he no longer had the strength to move.

Finally, his body crumpled completely, and he fell on top of her, his breaths shallow and barely audible. She could feel his faint heartbeat, the blood from his wounds oozing into her hair. His weight was crushing and though her muscle in her body screamed in protest, she tossed the knife to one side, not caring where it went.

She could no longer hear his heartbeat, no longer feel his warm breath on her skin. The cannon fired and somehow she knew he was dead, but she was unable to fully register it. At least, for a split second. Then the sound, still ringing in her ears, disappeared, and it hit her.

_I have a dead body on top of me_.

Though the thought was strangely calm, her reaction was not. It took every ounce of strength she had, but she pushed him away. She began to wiggle to the right, to slide underneath him. This was more than she could handle, and she began to scream—from the pain, from the horror in front of her, from the world which seemed to pitch in and out of view. She didn't feel in touch with anything; not the pine needles beneath her, or the oxygen she was breathing, or the sun caking the blood on her face into a sticky, foul layer. Instead she just continued screaming, so shrill and lost. The screams of someone who had lost her head completely. She could see the old Carolina before her, standing right above her in the white dress she wore the night of the interview. Shaking her head at her, a disapproving angel.

Tears rolled down Cara's cheeks, washing away some of the blood. But it wasn't nearly enough; she was breaking into pieces. Breaking into places she didn't even know, split into many minds and many selves, all of whom looked above her, appearing one by one next to the Carolina in the white dress. So many different versions of her, and Carolina couldn't tell what was real and what was false anymore. Her hands clutched some pine needles from the ground, the smell began to ground her a little, and the other selves before her began to shimmer, and disappear.

She wanted her mother. She wanted a sister. She wanted a friend. She wanted York. She wanted Maine. Somebody, anybody to hold her hand and tell her it would be all right. That she would be okay, and she could go home now. That this wasn't really happening. That it was impossible.

Her cries began to die out, her throat hoarse and dry. But when she saw the figure approaching, when she saw the broad shoulders and big feet and bright red hair, she managed a smile.

"Tex," she croaked, grateful for the company, grateful for anyone at all.

Tex, however, didn't say a word. She bent down next to the girl, grabbing Carolina's knife from the ground.

"Tex, I—"

But she never finished that sentence. In fact, she would never speak again. Because Tex's knife came down upon her, and slit her throat in a single, clean stroke.


	15. Sleep

**A/N: Just a heads-up: updating may slow a little bit. All of the chapters I have uploaded before were pre-written, so on Fidays I would just upload and walk away. But now I have run out of pre-written chapters and being busy with college and work I may not finish a chapter a week. But I'll try my best. Much thanks to Martienne for beta-ing this, and this was inspired by several songs. Sleep, by Poets of the Fall, Behind Closed Doors by Rise Against and She's My Sister from Memphis. Translation and explanation of what Maine says will be an endnote. **

* * *

"_Sleep, sugar, let your dreams flood in. Like waves of sweet fire, you're safe within. Sleep, sweetie, let your floods come rushing in, and let them carry you over, to a new morning."_

_-Sleep, Poets of the Fall_

_

* * *

_

York heard the screaming as soon as it began. He dropped the bundle of food he had pilfered from the campsite belonging to the District 3 tributes, and ran. He couldn't be sure that it was her, of course—he had never heard her scream before, but something in his bones, some inner part of his being, urged him to follow the sound.

He knew that she would be in the forest gathering edible plants and berries, but the forest that stretched in front of him was immense. He had no idea what direction to go in, and so he relied on sound. He was tall, taller than some of the other tributes, and as he ran branches from the trees began to cut into his face and neck. He refused to let that slow him. Everything was down to her, to those screams, each one sending a stab through his chest. His ribs ached with effort, and his lungs stretched with his heavy panting, but finally he reached her. He could see Tex in the trees opposite him, and paused for a moment, doubled over. He tried to catch his breath, and for the briefest of moments, closed his eyes.

It was in that split second that he heard running, the powerful footfalls of a hunter as opposed to the hunted. He opened his eyes and saw Tex disappear from view, a bloodied knife in her hands. Carolina's knife. His vision was blurred, and he scanned the area for Carolina, but saw nothing.

"Cara?" He called, but there was only silence. No screams, not even a whisper. He walked forward, uncertain of where to go now that his only source of direction had disappeared. Still, he continued, taking off his shoes to make less sound on the pine needles that covered the forest floor.

He was used to those beneath his feet, but after a few steps he felt something wet and slick beneath his toes instead. He looked down, and the dirt was stained with red. Up ahead, less than two yards away, he saw her lying on the ground in a pool of blood. She looked smaller than usual, so tiny and broken, her hair disheveled, and caked with the stuff.

"Carolina!" He went to her side, taking her twitching hand in his. "Are you with me? Cara?" Up close, he could see her throat had been slit, and he swallowed, hard. He was used to seeing wounds; he had had no problem treating Maine earlier. But seeing Carolina like this made bile rise in his throat.

There was no way she could speak; all he could hear was a faint gurgling sound, and the exhale of breath, accompanied by a dribble of blood. He knew there were only minutes left. Seconds. He held her hand tightly in his, stroking the top with the side of his thumb.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he got a light squeeze in response. "I'm so sorry, Carolina. I should have…done more. Shouldn't have left you alone."

Did he imagine it, or did she shake her head slightly?

He looked into her dark eyes, and shook his head. She didn't look at him with hate, or malice, or loathing. Just exhaustion. A plea. To stay with her now. He knew that look, on a different level. The kind his sisters gave him when they woke up after a nightmare. This was deeper than that, but the need was the same.

"I'm staying right here," he said, and repeated the words softly, for his benefit as well as hers. "Right here. I promise."

Her hand twitched in his, her fingers making an erratic beat. Her eyes were beginning to cloud over, and York knew it was seconds away from the end. That there was nothing left he could give her and what he had done was barely adequate at that.

What was it Maine had said to her yesterday? Something about luck? Taking a deep breath, York repeated the gesture, brushing Carolina's forehead with his lips.

"For luck," he whispered, forcing himself to swallow the lump in his throat.

Her hand went limp in his, the cannon fired, and the girl York barely knew slipped from his grasp.

* * *

He didn't let go of her hand until he heard the whistle, the warning signal from a mockingjay that the hovercraft was near. He turned his back on it; maybe it was cowardly but he didn't want to watch them take her away. Still, his mind raced with images, raw with grief. What her parents must be going through right now…he couldn't even put words to it. To be forced to watch her death, replaying it in their minds over and over again, no doubt. And he felt a sudden, sharp stab of fear at his own fate. What if he didn't end up as a victor?

His sister, his parents…

York shook his head, but the next image that haunted him made him stagger a little, his feet slipping in Carolina's blood. He tripped backwards, landing hard on his behind.

Delta.

What would Delta do without him? He knew that sounded selfish, especially to those who didn't know the two of them. But Delta was a part of York, and York was a part of Delta. There was no way he could deny that, though he had tried years ago. He missed D terribly, but he never allowed himself to show it. He couldn't, not here. It would only make him seem like a sniveling fool, and that wouldn't earn him any sponsors. Not to mention it would make him an easy target for the others.

Of course, Johanna Mason had won her Games by pretending to be a weakling so that others would forget about her. But while a girl could get away with this, York knew he couldn't. He had too much pride to let himself break down for all of Panem to see anyway. He wanted to be strong for Delta, and sitting there mourning for him wouldn't make it easier on either of them. But that was easier said than done and York began to shiver, a sign he was close to crying. He figured that unless something more interesting was going on, all cameras would be fixed on him. But with Carolina's body gone, he moved to a slightly more secluded spot, hoping that would be enough. Drawing his knees to his chest, he buried his face in his arms and let the tears flow.

York wasn't one of those types that were loud when they cried. Or at least, he wasn't anymore. It was something he had learned when he was four, dizzy and weak from starvation. He could see how his mother tensed up when he made those loud hiccupping sobs in-between his pleas for just a little more bread. So he began to force himself to be quiet, and hoped she wouldn't notice his tear stained cheeks. She probably did, but it was easier for both of them to pretend.

Two years later, he began to fuss with locks. His mother thought it was just a hobby, but he had a sharper mind than she had ever considered—he knew that if he could figure out how they worked, he could get inside places he wasn't supposed to. Places with food.

With his tears spent, York wiped his face with the edge of his jacket sleeve, and looked up towards the sky. It was cruel, how beautiful it was, that silver Halo shimmering against the cerulean. Grotesque in the ugliness of death; the blood and sweat and dirt that covered all of the tributes. He was so lost in the sky and the injustice of it all that he didn't notice the brief flash of grey and brown and olive green that indicated a predator.

And York was their prey.

* * *

Before York could even blink, Maine was on top of him, straddling his hips. Those bright green eyes that had previously looked easygoing now glinted dangerously.

His voice was a low growl, as he regarded York with searing hatred. "I should have never trusted you," he snarled. The grenade launcher had fallen off his back in the force of tackling York, out of reach, but that did little to soothe the terror that pulsed beneath York's skin.

It seemed stupid, to be afraid of a boy a year younger than him, a boy who still had an injured arm. But there was so much more than anger within Maine, something that had collapsed within. Instead of seeing a smartass, cocky fourteen-year-old, York got a glimpse of a monster, of someone haunted beyond his years. Someone who had seen too much; had been scarred beyond repair. But hadn't they all? York's mind felt muddled and he forced himself to think straight. Both were weaponless now, but he was not above hand-to-hand combat, and neither was Maine.

"I didn't kill her," York choked out. "I found her that way."

"Seems to be a habit of yours, doesn't it? Claiming someone else hurt her, yet you are the only one nearby." Maine's fist collided with York's face; York turned his head at the last moment, causing Maine's knuckles to make contact with his jaw instead of his nose.

"Son of a bitch!"

Both swore at the same time, and if it weren't for the horrific circumstances, York may have found their synchronicity to be amusing. Maine's knuckles were raw and bleeding, and York's jaw inflamed. Blood began to fill in his mouth, warm and tasting like salt and copper. York worked up a mouthful, and when Maine looked back into York's stormy grey eyes, spit.

Maine reeled back.

"Bathtard," York lisped, his gums beginning to swell. "Cara detherved better for a partner." He knew that provoking Maine would only make things worse, but he wasn't just going to lie back and take the beating. Never in a million years. Even in the particular position he was in, he at least had his pride.

Maine's reply wasn't in any language York recognized, and it was surprisingly calm. York had no idea what caused the change in his facial expression, but it unsettled him more than the rage. There was an undertone of someone about to pick apart their kill, the deadliest of predators.

"Cana, benign," Maine said, wiping the blood from his face and drawing his good arm back for another swing.

York tensed and readied himself to block the blow that never came. Instead, he felt Maine's weight relent so that York could wiggle out of his grip. He looked up, expecting to see Tex, and his rage flared to its peak at the mental image. Instead, a pair of golden brown eyes met his own. Soft chestnut waves cascaded down her shoulders, and she held Maine by the collar of his shirt like a misbehaving puppy.

York knew he should be grateful, and he rose to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth. "Mathach—"

She bit her lower lip, and York could tell she was trying not to laugh. "Don't bother," she said dismissively, and looked at Maine, who had gone surprisingly limp under her touch.

She was of equal height to him, and better fed, making it easy for her to overpower him. But it was still an odd sight to behold: the young girl who could have been someone York had been friends (or more than friends) with at school, holding the boy who had just beaten him like a cat about to be drowned.

Still, York couldn't make sense of it. Massa was a _Career_. Kill first, ask questions later. Hadn't he just seen her ally do the same thing?

"I can fight my own battleth, you know," he snapped at her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I could see you were doing so well with that." She released Maine, who was visibly shaking.

"Hell was that for, Massa?" Maine took two unsteady steps towards York, his face now drained of all color.

There was a look of calculation in her eyes, and an edge of falseness in her voice when she replied. "I have to save a little something, don't I? Give the audience enough of a show to be left wanting more. Oh, and by the way," she turned to Maine. "Don't you know it's far from classy to curse in the presence of a lady?"

"Duly noted," Maine mumbled, before crumpling completely onto the ground.

York made a small noise of disgust. "Yeah, real tough. Up for a fight, but can't thand upright afterward for leth than five minuteth."

Massa took one glance at Maine, and then back at York, her expression pleading. She made her way next to York, and whispered in his ear. "Look, I know I have absolutely no right to ask this of you, but you can help me carry him somewhere out of sight?"

"I'm thure you can manage on your own, Matha." York snapped back, wincing as each word made the nerves in his gums throb.

"It's just a _tad_ more difficult when he's dead weight, in case you haven't noticed. And you're terrible at hiding how much you're hurting, you know. But it'd be pretty easy for me to get you something to help heal your mouth."

York hesitated. Getting something to heal his jaw would make it possible for him to eat, and without food, he could be dead within a week. Also, Maine still owed him, and if it was one thing York understood better than anything, it was the repayment of a debt. "Fine. But don't expect me to do anything elthe."

"Fair enough. I'll take the arms?"

York nodded, and walked over to Maine's collapsed form. Without the anger, Maine looked more vulnerable than York had ever seen him. Stray blonde hair hung over his right eye in a tangled mess, and his expression had relaxed in an almost childish manner. It was a painful reminder of how young some of them were, including himself, and how cruel the entire thing was. Turning children into monsters, killing machines. Weapons against each other; damaged bodies and damaged minds. No victor escaped from the fracture of that; York was certain of it. And he wondered what Maine would have become without the Games, what Carolina might have grown up to be if given the chance.

He grabbed Maine's legs and followed Massa's lead through the maze of trees. The landscape of the arena was covered in cliffs and rocky outcroppings. The path they were on now was elevated to some degree, and York knew it would be impossible to get down to ground level that way. So he was not particularly surprised when Massa veered to the left, to the receding skyline in the distance. The ground began to slope down to a valley, thick with bushes. It was when Massa began to walk straight through a thicket that York paused.

"Uh…you thure that'th the beth idea?"

She gave him a pointed look. "Do you trust me?"

"Not one bit."

"Fine. I probably deserved that," she muttered. "But considering I saved you from being beaten into a bloody pulp…"

_Will I never stop owing the pair of them?_

"All right. Lead the way, then."

The path was abandoned, nearly obscured from view, with the jagged cliffs above them providing an overhang. The clearing Massa pointed to wasn't wide, but it kept them from being seen. As soon as Maine was placed on the ground (Massa laying him down gently; York not so much) York collapsed up against the side of the cliff, stretching his legs out in front of him.

"Your end of the bargain?"

"Yeah," Massa replied, but she busied herself with pushing Maine's hair out of his face, mopping up the blood from his hands with a little water and a spare bandage in her pack. Her touches were so gentle, the look in her eyes a combination of worry and care that York felt as though he were looking in a mirror.

_She loves him. _

How many times had he recognized that look in himself, when dealing with Delta? York wasn't new to crushes. He had crushed on a lot of girls before, and made a mistake with one that he regretted to this day. But Delta was different. Delta was so much more than that, and seeing the tenderness in how Massa dealt with Maine made him soften towards her a little.

When she finished, she looked up towards the cerulean sky, and called out in a hushed voice. "Finnick? We could really use a little help right now."

Almost at once the silver parachute came down, and Massa held out her hands. Attached to the parachute was a small green bottle, and Massa turned it over in her hands, studying the label carefully.

"This should work," she said to York, handing over the bottle.

He opened it, instantly assaulted by the scent of something bitter that he couldn't quite place. He winced, but downed it quickly. As soon as the mixture hit his mouth he wanted to vomit it back up, but he forced himself to swallow. It tasted of peppermint, and inexplicably, anise. Two of York's least favorite things in foul combination. But the pain in his mouth was receding, and he began to feel almost normal again. Well, as normal as he could get, considering the circumstances.

"Thanks," he said, and she shrugged her shoulders.

"You didn't kill her."

York couldn't help but let the bitterness creep into his voice. Even the thought of Carolina sent a jolt through his heart, like he had been shocked by the fence that surrounded District 12. "Try telling your boyfriend that."

She flushed, and looked down at her boots. "Jumped to conclusions. But wouldn't you, had it been the reverse?"

York knew the answer to that without hesitation. Of course he would have, the same way if anyone had hurt his sisters. "'Spose so," he said with grudging admittance.

"Though what happened to him that caused such…" Massa trailed off, and York understood. Forbidden thinking, and speaking it would be even worse.

Still, there was one thing eating away at him that he would never be able to shake. It weighed down his chest, making it difficult for him to catch a full breath. "It was my fault," he said in a strangled voice. "It was my idea that we split up. I thought we could cover more ground, but I should have gone with her. I was stupid." Anger flared up inside him, and his hand slapped the ground uselessly. "I was so damn stupid."

Massa placed her hand on top of his, and in her cracked, callused palm York felt the strength of friendship. "You couldn't have protected her forever," she said.

"Yeah, but I could have done more if I hadn't been such an _idiot_!" He began to get chilled again, but he wouldn't allow himself to cry. He had his moment, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let Massa see his weaknesses.

"You weren't an idiot," she said gently, and she squeezed his hand. "We never know how things are going to turn out, so if you sit there and think about the what ifs it will only kill you, too. Do you think she would have wanted that?"

"No," York mumbled.

"I mean…" Massa withdrew her hand and looked down at Maine. "Sometimes we think things are supposed to go a certain way…and then they don't."

"Huh?"

"No matter what we do, we will end up disappointing someone. At least, that's what I've learned here. We don't mean to…but something unexpected shows up. Some factor you never considered. And it changes everything." Her fingertips brushed Maine's as she spoke, and York understood.

Understood how one gesture, or even a word, could change everything. How one day you could look at someone and see them in a completely different way. Hadn't he done the same thing? And hadn't he been so afraid of disappointing people, of the look of disapproval in his mother's eyes if he even dared to tell her? He never had, and sometimes he wondered if she ever figured it out. But he couldn't help how he felt, and he couldn't deny how right it was, when Delta had finally pressed his lips against York's…

The sound of twigs snapping brought York out of his thoughts, and he turned his head towards the sound. Maine was awake, rubbing the side of his head.

"You," he said, and began to lunge towards York.

Massa pressed her hands against Maine's chest. "Stop it. Just stop it. Can you, for one second, listen to what happened instead of jumping to conclusions?"

Maine's eyes were still narrowed, but he nodded. "Okay."

York knew he had to tell the full story but words were getting stuck in his throat, and he had to take a few deep breaths before beginning. "I…I heard her scream. So I ran from where the District 3 tributes had made camp. They had, um, left so I was taking their food…but as soon as I heard the screaming I dropped everything. By the time I got there…she was on the ground. I…I saw Tex walking away. She had Carolina's knife, and it was dripping with blood. I knew she had done it but—"

"But what?" Maine interjected, and Massa hushed him.

"But I knew I had a choice," York continued. "I could either go after her, or I could stay with Cara. And I wasn't going to leave her alone. Not when she was hurt. At least…I thought she was hurt. But when she got closer…I…I…I…could see that her…throat had been cut. So I held her hand. And I told her I was sorry."

Maine lowered his head, and twirled a twig in between his fingers. "I…didn't know."

"You could have started off with not killing me," York pointed out, fighting to keep the anger from leaking into his words.

"Yeah," Maine mumbled, and he dropped the twig, thrusting his hand out to York. 'M..sorry," he said, his cheeks flushing.

York took it with trepidation. It took every ounce of effort he had to say the next two words. "Apology accepted." However, he wasn't about to leave Maine off the hook that easily. "Except for one thing."

"What?" Maine broke contact with York, frowning.

"You still owe me." York raised his chin a little, and he couldn't help the satisfied smile that followed.

"Oh. Right. That. Um…what do you want?"

"Not killing me is a start."

" 'Spose so," Maine mumbled, shooting a guilty look at York.

"And…take care of her." York nodded his head towards Massa. Technically, that didn't give him any advantage whatsoever, but he didn't want Massa to meet the same gruesome end as Carolina.

"That goes without saying." Massa moved closer to Maine and he wrapped his arms around her.

With their hands intertwined, York was stung with a sudden rush of jealousy and he bit back a nasty reply. Instead, he simply said, "I hope so." There was enough loss for one day—hell, enough loss for one lifetime, however long of a life he'd have.

Massa leaned up against Maine, her head resting on his chest. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her breathing slowed. York would have closed his eyes, too, but he feared what he might see, so he settled on picking apart the edges of one of the bandages taken from Maine's pack.

"Hey, we may need those," Maine whispered, trying not to rouse Massa.

"One won't make much of a difference."

"Okay, yeah, fine." There was a pause, and Maine wet his lips. "Look…I know it may not seem like it…but…I wanted to save her, too."

"I could see that." York sighed, and rubbed his jaw. Though the liquid Finnick had sent made him able to talk like a normal person again, there was still a throbbing pain on the left side of his mouth. York was certain that if he could see himself in a mirror, that side of his face would be swollen. "But beating the hell out of me doesn't fix that."

"What was I supposed to do? The Games aren't exactly known for their diplomacy."

York absentmindedly rolled the bandage around his thumb, a plan beginning to form in his mind. A plan that he wasn't about to let Maine be privy to. So he shrugged his shoulders and said, "I don't know."

Maine fell silent at that, and the pair watched the sun set. York's skin crawled when twilight fell, and the anthem began to play. The music had never made him feel at ease but now it was sickening. He didn't want to see Carolina's face projected into the sky. Massa stirred at the sound of the music, and opened her eyes in time to catch the first casualty—her District partner. York didn't bother remembering his name, and looking over at her he didn't see any emotion in her. Maybe a bit of relief, judging by her chest falling as she exhaled, sinking deeper into Maine's embrace. But not pity, or grief. York figured that Careers weren't close with the tributes from their fellow Districts, yet Massa hadn't distanced herself the way most Careers did. She willingly went with Maine, became his ally. More than that. She had shown kindness to both of them. York couldn't make sense of it. Careers were supposed to be vicious killers, willing to sacrifice everything for the glory of winning the Games. Yet here was a girl who spoke words of wisdom beyond her years, who loved a boy from 11. A nobody, really. And yet, she had picked him up like a kitten about to be drowned, and York got the sense that if she wanted to kill, she would be swift and merciless about it. He shook his head, wondering if he would ever be able to make sense of her. Or Maine, for that matter. And if it would even count, at the end of things.

Next up was the girl from 8, who York shrugged off. But Carolina—he thought he would be prepared for this. He knew she was gone; he had accepted it. But seeing her made him double over as if he had been punched in the stomach, panting for breath.

"Are…you okay?" York looked up at Maine, and noticed immediately that the younger boy's eyes were rimmed with red, a stray tear or two running down his nose. Maine sat up straighter, his head higher. A failed deception, but York understood. False pride was better than none at all.

"Yeah," York cleared his throat, the lie thick on his tongue. "I'm fine." He hoped that if he told himself enough times, he would be. His hands closed around the knife he had swiped from Massa's belt while the anthem was playing.

He would be even better once he put his plan into place.

* * *

**End note: So, yes, York swings both ways. He isn't compensating with girls or anything, he likes both. He's been that way from the beginning (though we don't know how he swings in RvB canon) in my outline for this. **

**Maine is speaking Latin, and he is saying, "Bitch, please." The literal is actually "female dog, please" and I have to thank the lovely ZetaEtaTheta for helping me with that. There is a reason why he says this, and why he said it in Latin as opposed to English. See, in Red vs Blue canon, Maine never speaks. He can only growl, snap or purr like an animal (there is a reason for this), so the audience never knew what he was actually saying. So one of my friends, agent_florida/Flaarda, decided that all he said was "Bitch, please." No matter what someone said to him, the response would be bitch, please. For example:**

**"Agent Maine, please kill Agent Washington."**

**"Bitch, please."**

**This joke even made its way up to Burnie Burns, creator of RvB, who said he never intended to write Maine as sassy. xD As a result, I knew that the "bitch, please" thing had to show up in here. The reason why I do it in Latin instead of English is because of the role Latin plays in the books (and okay, it sounds cooler). I believe that Latin was a language that trickled down through Panem in the way that idioms do here, or words that everybody uses without actually stopping to think of their meaning. So in a place like 11, with a lot of Peacekeepers, I believe it's possible that Latin curse words, or little songs like Carolina's would trickle down and people would repeat it without knowing the meaning. **

**-Tucker**


	16. For a Head

**A/N: Merry Christmas/Happy Chanukkah, my lovely readers! I know it's been a long time since I've updated anything, but this semester at my new school has been busy as hell, and I had some health problems that landed me in the hospital at the beginning of this month. Luckily I am on the path to healing now, and with break that means more time for writing! A big thanks goes to Martienne, the best Tex writer around, who gave this a once over and helped me improve upon her character. **

* * *

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Tex threw the bow to one side with disgust, shrugged the quiver off of one shoulder. The surplus arrows spilled onto the dirt. She didn't bother picking them up. The arrows still lodged in the tree were off kilter, far away from the spot she had designated as her target. Stripped of its outer bark, the off-white under-skin of the pine tree seemed to be taunting her.

She hadn't practiced much archery back home, focusing on hand-to-hand combat with knives. She lived for the rush that came from fighting with someone, so close you could see the expression in their eyes when the death blow was delivered. But working with these new weapons, she could see why some may favor them above her preference. There was a lightness to the weapon despite its deadly aim, and she liked that she had a steady supply of ammunition. Unlike her knives, which, if she tossed to the wrong target, ended up giving them an advantage. But there was little an enemy could do with a lone arrow without being at close range.

Now if she could only get the hang of them…

She picked an arrow up from where it lay at her feet, and sat on the lone log that served as the bench for the Careers' encampment. At the moment, Tex was the only one there, and that was exactly the way she liked it.

She had seen Tenn's face in the sky a few minutes ago, and hadn't been particularly surprised. The little girl—Carolina was her name, wasn't it?—had been sitting next to his body when Tex found her. Tex grabbed some bread from the food stash, but instead of eating it she turned it over in her hands again and again.

_Whatever. _

She tossed the bread to one side and stood up. She felt as though a sticky, disgusting grime covered her body, and she wanted nothing more than to get rid of it. A few meters away there was a small, clear pond and she rolled up her pants and dangled her feet in it, a bar of soap from the supplies in one hand. It was fine Capitol stuff, and although it smelled too flowery for Tex's taste it was better than the poor suckers without anything to wash with at all. Her feet clean, she stripped off the rest of her clothes, shivering a little as the twilight air hit her bare skin. She crossed her arms over her chest as a reflex, and then quickly uncrossed them.

_Who are you trying to fool, acting like you're so pure?_

Still, before this, Church was the only one to see her naked. He had undressed her slowly that first time, treating her with tenderness she knew she didn't deserve. Her movements had been harsh, hurried in response and after, sneaking away from his bed with her clothes in a bundle she found herself missing his gentle touch.

_Ugh, what the fuck is wrong with you today? _

Scrubbing away the layer of dirt and blood from her face, she glanced down at herself. Eyes widened, with tears gathered in the corners, the corners of her mouth trembling with remorse. She grabbed the soap and rubbed it fiercely into her skin once again, as if she could erase the weakness that had etched itself into her body.

The sound of footsteps crunching on pine needles had her out of the pond and dressed with lightening speed.

"Tex."

It was instinct that brought her to stand straight, from a lifetime of drilling that made her movements as sharp as the blade she pointed at her enemy.

Or should have been pointing at her enemy. Her hands patted down the sides of her pants, her belt loops, the pockets of her jacket, and came up with a big, fat nothing.

_Shit, shit, shit. _

They had to be on the other side of the camp, where she had messily dumped her forage bag. Tex cursed herself for making such a stupid, rookie mistake. She should know better! The last time she made such an obvious mistake was when she was twelve for goodness' sake!

"Looking for something, Tex?"

Her enemy stepped out of the shadows and Tex got a good, long look at him. Thick, messy black hair. Olive skin, deft fingers, and the chronic look of hunger in his posture. Grey eyes, stormy with anger. Just as tall as her, but at least fifty pounds lighter. Tex smiled. It would be a cinch to overtake him, even without weapons. She charged him, relishing the sense of control she had regained. Everything seemed so bright, so vivid, so _alive_ now that she knew how to kill the threat in front of her. The rush of adrenaline brought color to her cheeks and it pumped through her body in sheer ecstasy. She grabbed him by the shoulders and knocked him to the ground, about to pin him there with her knees.

"The problem with you people like you, Tex," the boy grunted under her weight. "is that you don't think things through. Just kill whoever gets in your way. Or even those who aren't in your way at all."

Tex really wanted him to shut up, but she knew that she would be the focus of the cameras now, and it would be stupid not to give the audience a show.

"It's the Hunger Games, cockbite," she snarled. "We're not going to be holding a peace pow-wow inside the Cornucopia."

The boy snorted with breathless laughter. "I'm not a dumbass. But you jump to that conclusion anyway. What I'm saying, Tex—"

"I don't think you'll be able to say anything soon. So save your little self-righteous speech for someone who cares." Tex interrupted in a feral tone.

"Your loss," the boy replied, and before she could reply Tex felt an agonizing rip in her side that was so strong she had to release her opponent and fell to one side. She pressed her hands to her grey shirt and they came back red.

The boy held her knife in one shaking hand, and with Tex's weight shifted, scrambled to his feet. "I told you, you might have wanted to listen to me."

Tex got to her feet, swaying unsteadily for half an instant before feeling a flash of anger at her own weakness. She planted her feet in a fighting stance, or tried to, but her vision was going was going yellow at the edges. It was too damn hot here.

_He just got lucky. Nothing more, and nothing less. Now, though, he'll be sorry…_

She removed her jacket, and the simple motion caused her to see white in front of her, the camp receding from view. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths and work through it.

"She didn't deserve to die," York said. "She was five years younger than you. At least seventy-five pounds less." He shook his head. Blood dripped off her knife and landed in the dirt. To Tex, it seemed to bloom into a thousand petals, like flowers waiting to bloom. Blood shouldn't be so pretty, so unearthly. She heard a faint whimpering sound like an injured animal, assumed it was York's. One shaking finger traced her dry, cracked lips—she was the creature.

But it couldn't be. It wasn't. She was hunched over with pain, and she saw York's grey eyes darken, soften, like a shade of smooth stone in the quarries back in District 2. Cold. Impenetrable. Impossible to defeat, only leaving cracks in those foolish enough to try. Her breaths came in shallow pants and she felt wild, fierce panic seize her, a final burst of resistance.

_No! I can't leave now. _

She looked this way and that, desperate for a rock, a sharp edge, something to do permanent damage to York before she lost consciousness altogether.

The arrows!

One teetered on a tree trunk, and in a motion that was threatened to rip her in half, she grabbed it. Held it close to her chest, tracing the arrowhead. It was razor sharp, tickling the tip of her finger. The bow was nowhere within her sight, but she couldn't think about hunting for it now because York was close, so close, holding that knife in a death grip to deliver its final blow. Now she was the weak one, pinned, with the cool, sweet silver itching for the taste of the blood that pounded at her neck. The blade kissed the skin, barely digging into it. A tease, from a boy she didn't think had the capacity to be cruel.

Her hand flopped, seemed to barely obey the command from her brain. It was hot, so damn hot. Sweat beaded her brow and her upper lip, and her flesh roasted in the dirt. She drew her arm back, and threw the arrow with all her might.

It stuck in the center of his eye, not where her mind had commanded her hand to throw at all. She had been aiming for the heart. Still, York gave an unearthly shriek of pain and fell back, child again. Tex tried to stand to her feet, but they were not there. She could feel nothing at all beyond her knees, only a useless mass that couldn't move, seemed to burn to crisp under invisible flames.

The cannon fired and Tex's eyes fluttered closed as she fell down, down, down, to another world entirely.


End file.
